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THE  UBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS177U 
.H6i| 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00008654253 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 

RET 

DUE 

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DUE 



Form  No.  513. 
Rey.  1/84 

4 


t 


Digitized  by 

the  Internet  Archive 

in  2014 

https://archive.org/details/poemsoffarmfiresOOhall_0 


POEMS 

OF  THE 

Farm  and  Fireside. 


'TIS  CHRISTMAS  EVE,  BUT  THE  STOCKIN'S  DON'T  HANG  BY  THE  CHIMBLEY  THERE.— Pa^e  59. 


POEMS  '^^^ 


OF  THE 

Farm  and  Fireside. 


BY 

EUGENE  J.  HALL, 

AUTHOR  OP  STORIES  OF  A  WINTER  NIGHT;  CALEB  COMERFORD  ; 
FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SNOW;  WON  AT  LAST; 
MANKIND  IN  GENERAL,  ETC. 


CHICAGO : 
JANSEN,  jyTcCLUEG  &  COMPANY. 
1  879. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

JANSEN,  McCLURG  &  COMPANY, 
In  the  oflQce  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Electrotyped  by  A.  Zekse  &  Co. 


MARY,  MY  WIFE, 

MY 

KINDEST  ORITIO 

AND 

TRUEST  EARTHLY  ERIEND. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  poems  are  neither  the  result  of  hours  of  idleness 
nor  the  imperfect  fancies  of  one  who  has  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
,Most  of  them  have  been  written  in  the  editorial  room,  with  the 
worry  of  printers  and  the  hurry  of  newspaper  work  about  the 
writer.  He  has  received  many  words  of  encouragement  from  his 
friends,  and  has  been  gratified  by  the  kindly  reception  some  of 
them  have  met  with  from  the  press  and  the  people. 

All  have  been  written  with  a  purpose;  some  to  point  out  the 
abuses  that  are  common  in  society,  to  show  their  deplorable  effects 
and  the  means  of  reform;  some  to  create  a  kindly  feeling  towards 
the  poor  and  lowly;  some  to  exhibit  a  few  peculiar  phases  of 
human  nature,  that  have  come  to  the  author's  observation;  some 
to  describe  the  joys,  the  sorrows  and  the  experiences  of  the  human 
heart,  and  every  one  with  the  earnest  intention  and  sincere  hope 
of  doing  good. 

As  literary  achievements,  the  author  does  not  claim  any  high 
degree  of  excellence  for  them,  nor  does  he  expect  the  approbation 
or  the  applause  of  literary  persons.  They  have  been  written  for 
the  people;  and  to  the  working  people,  among  whom  the  author 
has  passed  the  greater  portion  of  his  life,  he  looks  for  encour- 
agement and  patronage.  If  therefore  they  meet  with  •  a  friendly 
welcome  from  those  for  whose  good  they  are  intended,  he  will 
feel  that  his  efforts  in  their  behalf  have  not  been  in  vain. 

E.  J.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FARM  AND  FIRESIDE. 

Old  Farmer  Brown,   17 

The  Women's  War,   25 

Hard  Times,   32 

Christmas  Eve,   39 

Away  Down  East,   43 

Rufus  Rawlin^s  Ride,   47 

Old  Holden,   50 

Theresa  Trotfs  Dream,   52 

Contentr}ient,   54 

A  Morning  in  July,   58 

September,   60 

Octoler,   62 

Leila  and  Jane,   63 

''Help  Me  Across,"   66 

After  the  Summer  Time,   68 

A  Home  Picture,   69 

The  Old  Clock  in  the  Corner,   70 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Marah,   77 

Twilight,   .83 

Tahitha  Topp,  87 

Victoria  Grey,  91 

(11) 


12 


Contents. 


World  Weary,  95 

Midnight,     .    .    .    .    c  97 

Helen,      .    .  99 

Tioice  Asleep,  100 

Then  and  Now,  101 

Solomon  Ray,  103 

Two  Pictures,  105 

On  the  Bank  of  the  Murmuring  Rill,  108 

True  Friends,  Ill 

Sleep,  112 

Another  Year,  113 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Frontispiece — 'Tis  Christmas  Eoe,  hut  the  stockin's  don't  hang  by  the 


chimUey  there  4 

Hannah,  Fm  sick  a  livin'  here,  an'  a  uoorkin'  from  spring  to  fall,  ...  19 
And,  kneeling  down  on  the  time-worn  floor,  both  bowed  their  heads  in  prayer,  23 
An'  Uftin'  my  hands  up  to  heaven,  I  prayed  for  a  speedy  reform,     ...  27 

Josiah  Johnson  started  and  went  his  homeward  way,  83 

Bread  an'  butter  are  gittin'  high  an'  wages  are  gittin'  low,  37 

She  turns  from  the  window  and  lingers  awhile  by  the  open  door,    ....  55 

The  leafless  trees  are  brown  and  bare,  71 

And  beneath  the  waving  branches  off  we  told  our  tales  of  love,  80 

Miss  Tahitha  Topp,  a  young  lady  in  town,  86 

That  she  thought  herself  charming  was  plain  to  be  seen,   91 

She  wearily  sighs — "And  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep,  94 

A  child,  of  beauty  rare,  with  a  cherub  face  and  golden  hair,  105 

A  loathsome  wretch,  in  the  dungeon  low. 

With  the  face  of  a  fiend  and  a  look  of  woe,  107 

On  the  bank  of  the  murmuring  rill,  109 


(13) 


♦ 


POEMS 


OF  THE 


Fakm  and  Fireside 


POEMS 

OF  THE 

Farm  and  Fireside. 


OLD  FARMER  BROWN. 

mSCEIBED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  HUSBANDRY. 

From  the  harvest  field  old  Farmer  Brown  came  home  with  a  look 
of  care, 

He  threw  his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  sat  down  on  his  old  splint- 
bottomed  chair. 

He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  dripping  brow,  and  pulled  out  his  old 
jack-knife, 

He  whittled  away  to  himself,  awhile,  and  called  to  his  little  wife. 
From  her  quaint  and  tidy  kitchen,  she  came  through  the  open  door ; 
With  her  sleeves  pinned  up  to  her  shoulders  and  her  skirt  pinned 
up  before. 

She  looked  as  faded,  wrinkled  and  worn  as  the  folds  of  her  gingham 
gown. 

When  she  saw  the  haggard  and  hopeless  look  on  the  face  of  Farmer 
Brown. 

Then,  down  on  her  rocking-chair  she  sank,  in  a  sort  of  helpless  way, 
'Nor  spoke  one  word,  but  listened  and  looked  to  hear  what  he 
might  say. 

2  (17) 


1 8  Poems  of  the  Farvi  and  Fireside. 

"  Hannah,  I'm  sick  a  livin'  here,  an'  a  workm'  from  spring  to  fall 
A  raisin'  'taters  an'  corn  to  sell,  that  don't  bring  nothin'  at  all. 
Here  we  have  worked  together,  for  forty  years,  like  a  pair  o'  slaves. 
An'  that  old  mortgage  ain't  lifted  yet,  that  I  owe  to  Gideon  Graves. 
That  judgment  note  o'  Deacon  Dunn's,  will  soon  be  fallin'  due. 
An'  where  the  money's  a  comin'  from,  why,  I  can't  tell,  nor  you. 
I'm  kept  in  sech  a  worry  an'  fret,  by  all  o'  these  sort  o'  things. 
That  I  have  to  sell  the  stuff  that  I  raise,  rite  off  for  what  it  brino^s. 
It  costs  so  much  for  my  taxes  now,  an'  to  keep  the  wolf  away. 
That  I  haven't  no  chance  to  make  a  cent,  an'  that  is  what's  to  pay. 
Hannah,  we've  both  on  us  grown  old,  an'  our  children  all  are  gone, 
There  is  no  one  now  that  is  left  at  home  for  us  to  depend  upon. 
I  ain't  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be,  nor  as  able  to  work,  I  know, 
But  I've  got  to  set  these  matters  square,  an'  the  farm  '11  have  to  go. 

"  Half  o'  the  world  lives  idle,  with  plenty  to  eat  an'  wear. 
An'  the  ones  who  work  the  hardest,  have  often  the  least  to  spare. 
The  farmers  work  till  their  forms  are  bent,  an'  their  hands  are  hard 
an'  brown ; 

The  workmen  delve  in  the  dust  an'  smoke,  o'  the  workshops  in  the 
town ; 

The  sturdy  sailors  bring  to  our  shores  the  wealth  o'  foreign  lands, 
An'  the  other  half  o'  the  world  subsists,  by  the  work  o'  these  hard- 
ened hands. 

An'  this  is  one  o'  the  reasons  why,  I  can't  pay  what  I  owe ; 
While  you  an'  I  are  a  gettin'  old,  an'  the  farm  '11  have  to  go. 

"I've  worked  in  the  woods  in  the  winter  time,  I've  plowed  an' 

sowed  in  the  spring, 
I've  hoed  an'  dug  through  summer  an'  fall,  an'  I  haven't  made  a 

thing. 

Sometimes  I  lie  awake  all  night,  an'  worry  an'  fuss  an'  fret, 

An'  never  a  single  wink  o'  sleep,  nor  a  bit  o'  rest  I  get. 

I  think  of  our  grown-up  children,  an'  the  life  they've  jest  begun  — 

They've  got  to  hoe  the  same  hard  row,  as  you  an'  I  have  done. 

I  think  o'  the  politicians,  an'  the  way  they  rob  an'  steal, 


Old  Farmer  Brown, 


21 


An'  the  more  I  think  o'  farmin',  the  poorer  it  makes  me  feel. 
The  speculators  buy  up  our  cheese,  our  butter,  our  wool  an'  hay ; 
An'  they  sell  'em  ag'in  for  more'n  twice  as  much  as  they  had 
to  pay. 

They  bleed  us  in  transportation,  they  fleece  us  everywhere ; 
They  cheat  us  on  our  provisions,  an'  the  very  clothes  we  wear. 
They  live  in  their  lofty  houses,  on  the  best  that  can  be  found. 
Their  wives  wear  dazzlin'  diamonds,  an'  their  children  loaf  around, 
In  the  summer  they  go  to  the  sea-shore,  an'  the  springs,  to  make  a 
show. 

An'  that  is  the  way  our  butter  an'  cheese  an'  our  corn  an'  'taters  go. 

"  We  w^ork  in  the  sun  all  summer,  raise  turnips  an'  corn  on  shares, 
That  the  railroads  an'  politicians  may  cheat  us  an'  put  on  airs. 
They  carry  the  reins  o'  power,  an'  will  till  we  fill  our  graves. 
They  rule  an'  ruin  the  markets,  an'  we  are  a  pack  o'  slaves. 
What's  to  be  done  ?    God  only  knows.    I've  failed  in  many  ways, 
In  tryin'  to  lay  a  leetle  by,  to  ease  my  declinin'  days. 
I  never  have  been  a  shiftless  man, —  I've  figgered,  I've  worked  an' 
tried. 

While  the  old  farm's  been  a  runnin'  down,  since  the  day  that  father 
died. 

I've  borrowed  money  to  pay  my  debts,  an'  I've  watched  the  interest 
grow. 

Till  it's  fairly  got  the  start  o'  me,  an'  the  farm  '11  have  to  go." 

Then  the  little  wife  of  Farmer  Brown  stood  up  upon  the  floor. 
And  she  looked  at  him  in  a  kind  of  way  that  she  never  had  before. 
The  furrows  fled  from  her  shriveled  cheeks,  and  her  face  grew  all 
aglow : 

"/  never  will  sign  the  deed,  John,  an'  the  farm  shall  never  go. 
There's  jest  one  thing  to  be  done,  as  sure  as  you  an'  I  were  born, 
You  must  join  the  Grange  an'  vote^  John,  if  you  would  sell  your 
corn ; 

Hope  an'  prayer  are  good,  John,  for  the  man  who  digs  an'  delves, 
But  Heaven  will  never  help  us,  John,  unless  we  help  ourselves. 


2  2  Poems  of  the  Farm  aiid  Fireside, 

I  ain't  as  chipper  an'  smart  an'  spry,  nor  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be, 
But  I've  got  a  heap  o'  spunky  John,  when  it's  started  up  in  me." 

Over  the  old  man's  furrowed  face,  the  tears  began  to  flow. 
He  never  had  felt  more  proud  and  strong,  since  their  wedding  long 
ago. 

A  golden  gleam  of  heavenly  hope,  illumined  his  soul's  despair. 
And,  kneeling  down  on  the  time-w^orn  floor,  both  bowed  their  heads 
in  prayer. 


The  Women  s  War. 


25 


THE  WOMEN'S  WAR. 

A  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  CRUSADE. 

Well,  Amos,  I've  been  to  the  meetin',  we  held  it  at  Barker's  to- 
night ; 

I  tell  jou  the  Lord  is  a  eomin'  in  all  o'  his  power  an'  might. 
The  glad  songs  o'  Zion  are  ringin',  in  places  not  used  to  the  sound, 
Where  our  hoys  have  been  wastin'  their  evenin's,  in  drinkin'  an' 
loafin'  around. 

All  over  the  land  that  we  live  in,  in  country  an'  town,  everywhere. 
We're  a  goin'  to  give  Mr.  Tyndall  a  test  o'  the  power  o'  prayer. 

I've  been  to  the  meetin'  at  Barkers',  we  give  him  a  sudden  surprise  ; 
When  he  looked  up  an'  seen  us  a  comin',  I  tell  you  he  opened  his 
eyes. 

He  stared  at  us  over  the  counter,  each  eye  looked  as  big  as  the 
moon. 

But  we  wan't  to  be  frightened  in  that  way,  we  walked  right  into 
the  saloon. 

He  didn't  attempt  to  oppose  us,  he  was  willin'  to  give  us  fair  play ; 
He  looked  all  around  him  an'  chuckled,  but  never  a  word  did  he  say. 
There  were  lots  o'  young  men  there  a  loafin',  I  reckon  a  dozen  or 
more ; 

When  some  on  'em  seen  us  a  comin',  they  slid  out  the  leetle  back 
door. 

Some  stood  by  the  counter  a  drinkin' ;  they  hadn't  an  atom  o' 
shame. 

An'  those  who  were  playin'  at  billiards  went  on  with  their  impious 
game. 

The  rest  on  'em  sot  there  a  sippin'  their  whisky,  their  brandy  an' 
gin, 


26  Poems  of  the  Far7n  and  Fireside. 

A  lookin',  a  leerin',  a  winkin',  an'  waitin'  for  ns  to  begin. 
I  gazed  at  the  bright  lookin'  bottles  behind  the  tall  counter  dis- 
played ; 

I  thought  o'  the  lives  they  had  wasted ;  I  thought  o'  the  graves  they 
had  made. 

I  thought  o'  the  boys  they  had  ruined,  by  leadin'  'em  widely  astray ; 
O'  the  wrongs  they  had  wrought  on  the  helpless,  by  stealin'  their 
substance  away ; 

An'  all  o'  the  power  within  me,  swept  over  my  soul  like  a  storm, 
An'  liftin'  my  hands  up  to  heaven,  1  prayed  for  a  speedy  reform. 
While,  out  o'  the  mouths  o'  the  sisters,  who  solemnly  knelt  by  me 
there, 

A  hundred  impressive  responses  j'ined  in  with  my  passionate  prayer. 
Then  we  snng  that  glad  hymn  o'  salvation,  "  O  turn  ye,  for  why 
will  ye  die  ?" 

An'  it  seemed  to  my  soul  in  that  moment,  God's  glory  was  comin' 
so  nigh. 

We  sang  o'  the  lowly  Redeemer,  an'  those  that  he  perished  to  save, 
An'  when  the  last  stanza  was  ended,  the  room  was  as  still  as  the  grave. 

Bill  Barker  looked  over  his  counter,  the  prospect  he  didn't  enjoy ; 
'Twas  plain  to  be  seen  he  was  thinkin'  o'  those  he  had  helped  to 
destroy. 

He  glanced  at  the  row  o'  bright  bottles  before  his  broad  mirror 
arrayed. 

Like  one  who  is  proud  o'  his  power,  nor  cares  for  the  wrecks  he  has 
made. 

But  soon  o'er  his  hard-lookin'  features  a  kinder  an'  softer  look  stole ; 
Perhaps  some  good  angel  was  tryin'  to  soften  his  sin-burdened  soul. 
He  looked  sort  o'  troubled  an'  worried,  an'  still  he  had  nothin'  to  say  ; 
He  seemed  to  be  quietly  wishin'  we  women  were  out  o'  the  way. 
All  was  still !  till  a  wild-lookin'  woman,  with  a  face  jest  as  white  as 
a  shroud ; 

Crept  stealthily  out  o'  a  corner,  an'  stood  in  the  midst  o'  the  crowd. 
Her  holler  cheeks  spoke  o'  starvation,  her  sunken  eyes  told  o'  dis- 
tress ; 


The  Women  s  War. 


29 


Her  quiverin'  lips  o'  muie  anguish  no  language  o'  mine  can  ex- 
press. 

She  lifted  her  talon-like  fingers  high  over  her  head  in  despair, 
An'  walkin'  straight  up  to  the  counter,  she  gazed  at  the  rumseller 
there. 

He  looked  at  her  pale,  haggard  features,  an'  turned  with  a  shudder 
away. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  he  listened  to  hear  what  the  woman 
would  say. 

Look !  Look  on  your  work  here,  Bill  Barker,"  she  cried  with  a 
passionate  wail ; 

"  You  have  ruined  my  home  an'  my  husband,  and  sent  both  my 

young  boys  to  jail. 
They  say  1  am  mad  !   do  you  wonder  ?    Your  liquor  has  brought 

all  my  woe ; 

I  tell  you  your  time  is  a  comin'  —  God^s  judgment  is  certain  hut 
slow  !  " 

Then  tnrnin'  away  from  the  counter,  she  silently  passed  from  the 
place ; 

The  rumseller's  conscience  was  troubled,  he  showed  it  all  over  his 
face. 

His  mind  seemed  to  be  all  unsettled,  his  feelin's  he  couldn't  control ; 
I  knew  that  a  powerful  struggle  was  goin'  on  down  in  his  soul. 
An',  Amos,  I  reckon,  no  language  can  picter'  the  way  that  he  felt ; 
He  looked  kind  o'  sorry  an'  'umble,  like  one  jest  beginnin'  to  melt. 
An'  when  in  a  few  moments  after,  we  j'ined  in  a  season  o'  prayer, 
He  silently  came  round  the  counter  an'  noiselessly  knelt  by  us 
there. 

The  men  had  all  finished  their  playin'  an'  drinkin',  and  stood  by 
the  wall, 

An'  over  their  rough-lookin'  faces  the  tears  were  beginnin'  to  fall. 
The  sounds  o'  the  revel  were  over,  the  air  seemed  more  pure  and 
serene ; 

An'  all  on  us  felt  in  that  moment,  the  presence  o'  angels  unseen. 


30  Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 

As  soon  as  we  finished  our  prajin',  Bill  Barker  rose  up  from  the 
floor, 

An'  while  we  stood  wonderin'  an'  gazin',  he  started  an'  opened  the 
door. 

Then,  takin'  a  barrel  o'  liquor,  he  rolled  it  along  with  his  feet ; 
He  knocked  out  its.  head  with  a  hatchet  an'  spilt  it  out  into  the 
street. 

Then  all  on  us  turned  in  an'  helped  him  to  finish  what  he  had 
begun : 

He  emptied  his  bright-lookin'  bottles,  nor  paused  till  the  good  work 
was  done. 

Then  turnin',  he  said,  "I'm  a  goin'  to  close  up  my  business  to- 
night; 

I've  made  up  my  mind  to  be  honest,  I  mean  to  try  hard  and  do 
right. 

I've  sent  more  young  men  to  destruction  than  any  man  livin'  in 
town. 

But  I'm  goin'  to  put  up  my  shutters,  an'  tear  my  old  liquor  sign 
down. 

I'm  goin'  to  work,  an'  God  will  in',  I'll  be  a  respectable  man ; 
Go  on  with  the  good  work  you're  doin',  I'll  help  you  as  much  as  I 
can." 

Then  when  he  was  through  with  his  speakin',  we  all  commenced 
singin'  again. 

An'  "Nearer  my  God  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee,"  was  our  joyful 
refrain. 

An'  those  who  had  been  there  a  drinkin',  seemed  moved  by  the 
power  o'  prayer. 

An'  sang  with  the  deepest  o'  feelin'  the  words  o'  that  heavenly  air. 
An',  Amos,  I  can't  help  believin'  that  music  went  up  to  the  sky, 
To  be  chanted  an'  echoed  in  Heaven,  by  beautiful  angels  on  high. 

Yes,  Amos,  I've  been  to  the  meetin',  you  needn't  look  smilin'  nor 
queer, 

That  we  are  goin'  to  conquer,  I  haven't  a  doubt  nor  a  fear. 


The  Women  s  War.  31 

You  may  laugh  an'  may  say  that  we  women  are  crazy  an'  out  o'  our 
heads ; 

That  we'd  better  be  darnin'  our  stockin's,  a  sweepin'  or  makin'  the 
beds  ; 

But  we're  goin'  right  into  the  battle,  nor  will  we  give  up  in  despair; 
If  we  only  go  at  it  in  earnest^  there's  a  wonderful  power  in  prayer. 


32 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside, 


HARD  TIMES. 

From  the  noise  of  the  busy  workshop,  at  the  close  of  a  winter  day, 

Josiah  Johnson  started,  and  went  his  homeward  way  ; 

His  face  was  black  and  dusty,  his  hands  were  cold  and  bare. 

And  through  the  holes  in  his  garments,  he  felt  the  frosty  air. 

Weary  and  worn,  he  grumbled,  at  the  hardness  of  his  lot ; 

He  came  at  last  to  his  dwelling,  a  low  and  cheerless  cot. 

The  broken  panes  of  the  windows  were  filled  with  wads  of  straw^, 

The  kitchen  was  damp  and  smoky,  the  old  stove  would  not  draw. 

His  wife  was  pale  and  sickly,  she  never  had  been  stout, 

He  found  her  hardly  able  to  labor  or  be  about ; 

He  looked  at  her  haggard  features,  he  gazed  at  her  faded  gown, 

He  hung  his  hat  on  a  rusty  nail  and,  with  a  sigh  sat  down. 

Then,  looking  up  at  his  wife,  he  said,  in  a  melancholy  way: 

"  What  is  the  use  I'd  like  to  know,  o'workin'  from  day  to  day  ? 

I^othin'  comes  o'  my  labor,  but  a  pittance  mean  an'  poor. 

Hardly  enough  to  keep  the  wolf  away  from  our  humble  door. 

I  don't  believe  there's  a  man  in  town  that  works  more  hours  than  me, 

An'  yet  I'm  ragged  an'  pinched  an'  poor,  an'  wretched  as  I  can  be. 

I  never  have  been  lazy,  I  never  have  loafed  around, 

A  steadier  man  than  I  have  been,  'aint  nowhere  to  be  found ; 

But  I  never  seem  to  prosper,  however  hard  I  try. 

An'  there's  nothin'  left  for  me  to  do,  but  to  dig  along,  an'  die. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  a  comin',  I  wouldn't  think  it  strange 
If  our  country  should  go  to  ruin,  unless  there  comes  a  change. 
It  is  loaded  down  with  public  debts,  an'  I  am  much  afraid 
That  none  o'  our  children's  children  will  live  to  see  'em  paid. 
Our  cities  an'  towns  are  bonded  for  more  than  they  can  bear. 
An'  the  people  are  pinched  an'  worried  with  taxes  everywhere ; 
From  the  coast  o'  Californy  to  the  piney  woods  o'  Maine, 


Hard  Times. 


35 


Our  debts  grow  like  a  torrent  in  the  time  of  a  heavy  rain. 

"  Where  has  the  money  gone  to  ?    It  isn't  hard  to  tell ! 

Go  into  our  city  councils  an'  look  a  leetle  spell ; 

Go  visit  our  legislatures  wherever  they  may  be, 

An'  lookin'  under  the  surface  jest  see  what  you  can  see ; 

Regard  the  pitiful  picter  an'  turn  in  shame  away, 

Nor  wonder  that  our  loved  country  is  a  goin'  to  decay. 

"  The  standard  o'  public  honor,  is  gittin'  mighty  low, 
While  truth  an'  patriotism  are  things  o'  the  long  ago. 
Our  laws  are  made  by  loafers,  to  sudden  greatness  grown. 
Whose  intimate  acquaintance  I'd  be  ashamed  to  own  ; 
Who  load  the  people  with  burdens  they  cannot  well  endure, 
Who  vote  themselves  the  moneys,  exacted  from  the  poor. 

^'  A  man  who  runs  for  office,  is  covered  with  mud  an'  slime, 
By  half  o'  the  worthless  idlers  an'  loafers  o'  his  time ; 
He  must  spend  his  money  freely,  an'  give  the  lion's  share 
O'  the  spoils  o'  his  public  office  to  the  half  who  send  him  there. 
He  must  visit  the  vilest  places,  an'  listen  to  curses  loud, 
And  pay  for  plenty  o'  liquor  to  treat  a  drunken  crowd ; 
He  must  stand  at  the  pollin'  places  when  election  day  comes  'long. 
An'  beg  an'  buy  an'  dicker  for  the  votes  of  a  vulgar  throng. 
An'  all  o'  the  money  he  squanders  in  bribin'  these  greedy  knaves, 
He  steals  ag'in  from  the  people  when  he  gits  the  place  he  craves. 
N^o  man  o'  truth  an'  honor  will  stoop  to  things  so  loW, 
If  ever  he  runs  for  office  he  don't  have  any  show. 
So  fellers  are  sent  to  congress,  to  vote  themselves  more  pay. 
An'  the  times  keep  gittin'  harder  an'  harder  every  day. 
Hard  times !  hard  times !  is  the  common  cry  in  every  place  I  go. 
Bread  an'  butter  are  gittin'  high  an'  wages  are  gittin'  low ; 
Our  business  men  are  a  breakin'  up,  our  banks  are  goin'  to  smash. 
An'  everybody  is  deep  in  debt  an'  greatly  in  need  o'  cash. 
A  hard,  cold  winter  is  comin'  on  with  all  of  its  w^ant  an'  woe, 
God  pity  the  poor  an'  the  hungry  ones,  with  nowhere  on  earth 
to  go." 


36 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


Then,  after  thinking  a  minute,  Josiah  Johnson's  ^*ife 
Put  down  her  pan  of  potatoes  and  laid  aside  her  knife. 
And  standing  up  by  the  table,  she  said  in  a  cheerful  way, 

The  times  are  a  growin'  better  an*  better  every  day ; 
It's  only  the  worthless  bottom  that's  fallen  out  o'  things. 
That's  got  up  this  commotion  among  financial  rings, 
*Tis  goin'  to  be  a  blessin'.  it'll  stop  those  frauds  an'  crimes. 
An'  reckless  speculations  that  have  helped  to  make  hard  times ; 
An'  the  day  is  swiftly  comin',  when  things  that  are  bought  an'  sold, 
^ill  be  paid  for  in  hard  money,  in  silver  an'  in  gold. 
An"  as  to  the  politicians  that  have  plundered  the  land  so  long. 
You  may  be  right  in  some  things  an'  in  most  may  not  be  wrong, 
The  only  way  for  to  reach  'em  an'  humble  their  guilty  souls, 
Is  to  go  vnth  your  feller  icorkers  an\fa<-e  'era  at  the  poVs. 
Stand  up  for  men  o'  honor  on  every  election  day, 
An'  tend  to  your  daily  duties  an'  labor  an'  hope  an'  pray. 
Eemember  when  you  are  weary,  that  hard  times  come  no  more. 
When  the  troubles  o'  life  are  over,  an'  we  walk  on  the  golden  shore." 


Christmas  Eve. 


39 


CHEISTMAS  EVE. 

In  an  old  E"ew-England  kitchen,  where  a  warm  wood  fire  burned 
bright, 

Sat  good  old  Farmer  Ketcham,  and  his  wife,  one  winter  night. 
The  wind  without  was  wailing,  with  a  wild  and  woeful  sound. 
And  the  fleecy  folds  of  the  drifting  snow  lay  deep  upon  the  ground. 
But  what  cared  Farmer  Ketcham,  for  the  tumult  out-of-doors  ? 
For  he  had  foddered  the  cattle,  and  done  the  other  chores ; 
And  snug  in  the  chimney  corner,  in  his  easy-chair,  he  sat. 
Silently  smoking  his  old  clay  pipe,  and  pooring  the  purring  cat. 
While,  plying  her  knitting  needles,  his  wife  rocked  to  and  fro. 
Humming  a  hymn  and  dreaming  a  dream  of  the  long  ago. 
Over  the  old-time  fire-place,  a  rusty  musket  hung. 
And  a  score  of  strings  of  apples  from  the  smoky  ceiling  swung ; 
While  back  in  a  dingy  corner,  the  tall  clock  ticked  away. 
And  looked  like  the  sagging  farm-house,  fast  falling  to  decay. 
The  knitting  fell  from  the  woman's  hands,  the  old  man  turned  about, 
He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  he  slowly  knocked  the  ashes 
out. 

And  after  thinking  a  moment,  he  said,  with  a  solemn  air, 
"  'Tis  Christmas  Em^  but  the  stockin's  don't  hang  by  the  chimbley 
there." 

The  woman  sighed,  and  then  replied,  in  a  sad  and  faltering  tone : 
"  The  years  have  come,  an'  the  years  have  gone,  an'  we  are  ag'in 
alone. 

An'.  I  have  jest  been  thinkin'  of  a  Christmas  long  ago, 
When  the  winders  were  frosted  over,  an'  the  ground  was  white 
with  snow ; 

When  we  sot  in  the  chimbley  corner,  by  the  firelight's  cheerful 
gleam ; 


40 


Poojis  of  the  Fa7'ni  and  Fireside. 


When  our  lives  were  full  o'  promise,  an'  the  future  but  a  dream ; 
When  all  o'  the  rest  of  our  folks  had  gone  away  to  bed, 
An'  we  sot  an'  looked  an'  I  listened  to  the  whispered  words  you 
said. 

Till  home  from  Benson's  store,  came  rollickin'  brother  John. 
An'  a  peekin'  thro'  the  winder,  saw  what  was  a  goin'  on. 
Then  how  the  neighbors  tattled  an'  talked  all  over  town, 
Till  you  an'  I  were  married,  an'  quietly  settled  down. 

While  a  rummagin'  through  the  cobwebs,  in  the  garret,  t'other  day, 
I  found  a  pile  o'  broken  toys,  in  a  corner  stowed  away. 
An'  a  lot  o'  leetle  worn-out  boots,  a  lay  in'  in  a  heap, 
As  they  used  to  lay  on  the  kitchen  floor,  when  the  boys  had  o-one 
to  sleep. 

I  looked  at  the  worn-out  trundle-bed.  an'  the  cradle  long  laid  by, 

An'  leanin'  ag'in  the  chimbley  there,  I  couldn't  help  but  cry. 

For  the  faces  o'  my  children  came  back  to  me  once  more. 

An'  I  almost  heerd  the  patter  o'  their  feet  upon  the  floor. 

I  thought  o'  their  happy  voices,  an'  the  leetle  prayers  they  said. 

As  they  used  to  gather  'round  me,  when  'twas  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Of  all  the  earthly  treasures  we  prize  in  the  world  below, 
The  ones  we  love  the  fondest  are  the  flrst  to  fade  an'  go. 
Of  all  the  beautiful  children  that  came  to  our  fireside, 
The  one  we  loved  most  dearly  was  our  leetle  girl  that  died. 
Her  eyes  were  blue,  an'  soft  as  the  hue  o'  the  cloudless  summer  air, 
An'  brio^ht  as  a  o^leam  o'  cjolden  lis^ht  were  her  curls  o'  shinin'  hair. 
Her  thoughtful  face  was  white  as  the  flakes  o'  the  newly-fallen  snow; 
Too  much  of  a  leetle  saint  she  was  to  live  in  the  world  below. 
How  calm  in  her  leetle  coffin  she  looked  in  her  last  repose. 
As  sweet  as  the  fairest  lily,  as  pure  as  a  tuberose. 
An'  I  can  well  remember  the  sadness  o'  the  day. 
When  my  heart  was  well-nigh  broken  as  they  carried  lier  away. 

"  The  eldest  of  our  children  was  a  proud  an'  han'some  boy ; 

He  was  his  father's  brightest  hope,  an'  his  mother's  pride  an'  joy. 


Chi^istmas  Eve. 


41 


I  used  to  play  with  his  chubby  hands,  an'  kiss  his  leetle  feet, 
An'  wonder  if  ever  a  babe  was  born  more  beautiful  an'  sweet. 
An'  many  a  night,  by  candle-light,  when  he  was  snug  in  bed, 
I've  patched  his  leetle  clothes  with  weary  hands  an'  an  aching 
head. 

We  sent  him  away  to  college  —  he  did  uncommonly  well, 

Till  he  went  to  live  in  the  city,  an'  married  a  city  belle. 

Of  all  our  earthly  trials,  of  all  our  earthly  care, 

The  cold  neglect  of  a  thankless  child  is  the  hardest  of  all  to  bear. 

His  wife  is  a  woman  with  only  high  notions  in  her  head, 

She  couldn't  knit  a  stockin',  nor  bake  a  loaf  o'  bread. 

She  plays  on  the  planner,  nor  works  with  her  lily  hands. 

An'  she  talks  in  a  foreign  lingo  that  no  one  understands. 

"  The  youngest  of  our  livin'  boys  I  never  could  understand ; 

He  didn't  take  to  larnin',  no  more  'n  a  fish  to  land. 

He  was  wayward  an'  hard  to  govern,  not  altogether  bad ; 

He  was  strong  an'  proud,  an'  set  in  his  ways,  but  not  a  vicious  lad. 

An'  somehow,  we  couldn't  keep  him  quite  under  our  control, 

But  1  know  he  had  a  tender  heart,  an'  a  good  an'  noble  soul ; 

An'  a  mother's  prayers  will  go  with  him,  wherever  he  may  be :  — 

God  keep  him  safe,  an'  bring  him  home,  in  his  good  time,  to  me. 

"  I  miss  our  children's  voices,  for  all  have  gone  away ; 

One  has  gone  to  the  better  land,  an'  the  rest  have  gone  astray. 

I  wonder  if  up  in  heaven,  where  all  is  bright  an'  fail'. 

If  we  will  meet  our  children,  an'  they  will  love  us  there." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  outside  door,  the  old  folks  gave  a  start ; 
The  woman  sprang  from  her  rocking-chair,  with  a  flutter  at  her 
heart. 

The  door  swung  widely  open,  and  banged  against  the  wall, 
And  into  the  farm-house  kitchen  strode  a  stranger  dark  and  tall. 
The  woman  looked  at  his  bearded  face  a  moment  in  surprise ; 
She  saw  a  quiver  about  his  mouth,  and  a  glad  look  in  his  eyes, 
And  lifting  up  her  hands  to  Heaven,  she  uttered  a  cry  of  joy, 


42  .  Poems  of  the  Farjn  and  Fireside. 

And  bowed  her  white  head  lovingly  on  the  breast  of  her  wayward 
boy. 

The  red  flames  roared  upon  the  hearth,  the  beech  logs  cracked  and 
steamed ; 

And  on  the  floor  and  time-worn  walls,  the  firelight  glowed  and 
gleamed. 

That  old  ^NTew-England  kitchen  had  never  been  more  bright, 
Than  it  was  to  Farmer  Ketcham  and  his  wife  that  winter  night. 


Away  Down  Bast. 


AWAY  DOWN  EAST. 

Away  down  east  whare  mountain  rills 
Ar'  thru  the  hollers  flowin'; 

Whare  cattle  browse  upon  the  hills, 
When  summer  winds  ar'  blowin' ; 

Whare  in  the  moonlight  winter  nights 
The  world  puts  on  sich  splendor, 

When  young  folks  go  tu  sin  gin'  school 
An'  git  so  kind  o'  tender ; 

Whare  village  gossips  hear  an'  tell 
The'r  kind  o'  harmless  slander ; 

Thare  lived  blue-eyed  Mehetabel, 
An'  honest  young  Philander. 

Mehetabel  was  jest  as  sweet 
An'  fair  as  summer  weather, 

She  hed  the  cutest  leetle  feet 
That  ever  trod  in  leather. 

An'  then  those  mild  soft  eyes  o'  her'n 
Wy  !  cider  wer'n't  no  clearer ; 

They  made  Philander's  visage  burn, 
Whenever  he  sot  near  her. 

Philander,  he  was  tall  an'  thin, 

A  kind  o'  slender  feller; 
He  hed  a  sort  o'  goslin'  chin, 

His  hair  was  long  an'  yeller. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 

Drest  in  liis  go-tu-meetin'  clothes, 

A  standin'  collar  sportin'; 
He  went  down  cross-lots  Sunday  nights, 

To  Deacon  Spencer's  courtin'. 

Thare  down  he  sot  afore  the  fire, 

A  thinkin'  an'  a  lookin' ; 
He  praised  the  deacon's  sheep  an'  cows, 

He  praised  Jier  mother's  cookin'. 

He  talked  all  round  the  tender  pint 
But  somehow,  couldn't  du  it, 

His  words  got  l{,ind  d'  out  d'  fint^ 
Afore  he  could  git  thru  it. 

'Twas  twelve  o'clock  one  Sunday  night ; 

A  blazin'  fire  was  roarin' : 
The  old  folks  hed  gone  ofi:'  tu  bed  ; 

The  Deacon  he  was  snorin'. 

Around  the  time-worn  room  the  light 

Fell  kind  o'  soft  an'  rosy, 
The  old  pine  settle  it  was  drawn 

Up  by  the  fireplace,  cozy. 

Mehetabel  sot  on  one  end, 

Philander  he  sot  by  her. 
An'  with  the  old  tongs  in  his  hand, 

Kept  pokin'  at  the  fire. 

He  tried  tu  tell  her  how  he  felt ; 

It  sot  him  in  a  flutter, 
The  sweat,  it  jest  rolled  down  his  face 

Like  drops  o'  melted  butter. 

So  thare  they  sot  an'  talked  about 
The  moonshine  an'  the  weather. 

An'  kept  a  kind  o'  hitchin'  up 
Until  they  hitched  together. 


Away  Down  East. 


The  Deacon  snored  away  in  bed; 

Philander  he  got  bolder ; 
He  slid  his  arm  around  her  head 

An'  laid  it  on  his  shoulder. 

An'  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 

An'  looked  up  intu  his'n. 
It  seemed  as  if  Philander's  heart, 

Intu  his  mouth  hed  ris'n. 

He  sot  an'  trembled  for  awhile. 
She  looked  so  mighty  clever. 

Some  spirit  v/hispered  in  his  ear — 
^'  Jest  du  it  now  or  never. 

Sez  he  — "  My  dear  Mehetabel, 
My  house  an'  home  ar'  waitin'. 

An'  ain't  it  gittin'  tu  be  time 
That  you  an'  I  were  matin'  ? " 

An'  then,  sez  she,  jest  loud  enuff 
For  him  tu  understand  her, — 

"  If  you  kin  be  content  with  me, 
I  guess  it  is,  Philander." 

The  Deacon  woke  up  from  his  dreams, 
Sez  he :  "  Ther's  suthin'  brewin'. 

He  peeked  out  thru  the  bed-room  door, 
Tu  see  what  they  were  doin'. 

An'  when  he  saw  'em  sittin'  thare, 

Like  leetle  lambs  in  clover, 
He  almost  snickered  right  out  loud, 

It  tickled  him  all  over. 

He  nudged  his  wife  and  tuld  her  tu. 
An'  my !  how  it  did  please  her. 

An'  then  they  talked  themselves  to  sleep. 
An'  snored  away  like  Ceazer. 


46 


Poems  of  the  Farjn  a7id  Fireside. 


Philander  sot  there  all  night  long, 

He  didn't  think  o'  goin' ; 
Till  when  the  day  began  tu  dawn, 

He  heerd  the  roosters  crowin'. 

An'  when  he  started  over  home, 

Alone  acrost  the  holler, 
He  kept  a  talkin'  tu  himself, 

An'  fumblin'  w4th  his  collar. 

Sez  he :  ^'  Ther'  never  was  a  chap. 
That  did  the  bizness  slicker  " — 

An'  then,  he  gin'  himself  a  slap. 
An'  my  !  how  he  did  snicker. 

An'  now  bine-eyed  Mehetabel 

Is  married  tu  Philander, 
An'  village  gossips  idly  tell 

That  ne'er  was  weddin'  grander. 

Those  peaceful  moonlight  winter  nights 
Have  not  yit  lost  the'r  splendor, 

The  young  folks  go  tu  singin'  school, 
An'  still  git  kind  o'  tender. 

Away  down  east,  whare  mountain  rills, 
Ar'  thru  the  hollers  flowin' ; 

"Whare  cattle  browse  upon  the  hills. 
When  summer  winds  ar'  blowin'. 


Rufus  Rawkns  Ride. 


RUFUS  EAWLIN'S  RIDE. 

Thru  Goshen  Holler,  whare  hemlocks  grow, 
Whare  the  ripplin'  rills  with  a  rush  an'  flow 

Ar'  over  the  rude  rocks  fallin' ; 
Whare  fox  an'  bear  an'  catamount  hide 
In  the'r  holes  an'  caves  in  the  mountain  side, 
A  circuit  preacher  once  used  to  ride, 

An'  his  name  was  Rufus  Rawlin. 

He  was  set  in  his  ways,  an'  what  was  strange. 
If  you  argued  with  him  he  wouldn't  change ; 

You  couldn't  git  nothin'  thru  him. 
Solemn  an'  slow  in  style  was  he ; 
Slender  an'  slim  as  a  tamarack  tree. 
An'  alius  ready  tu  disagree 

With  everybody  that  knew  him. 

One  night,  he  saddled  his  sorrel  mare. 
An'  started  over  tu  Ripton,  whare 

He'd  promis'd  tu  du  some  preachin'. 
Away  he  cantered  over  the  hill, 
Past  the  school-house  at  Capen's  Mill ; 
The  moon  was  down,  an'  the  evenin'  still. 

Save  the  sound  of  a  night-hawk  screechin'. 

At  last  he  cum  tu  a  dark  ravine  — 
A  feelin'  kind  o'  queer,  an'  a  mean 

Sensation  stealin'  o'er  him. 
Old  Sorrel  began  tu  travel  slow. 
Then  gin  a  snort  an'  refused  tu  go ; 
The  parson  clucked,  an'  he  hollered  "  Whoa  ! ' 

An'  wondered  what  was  afore  him. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  seemed  tu  hear 
A  gurglin'  groan,  so  very  near 

That  it  scattered  his  senses,  nearly ; 
"  Go  'oME  !  Go  'oME  !  " —  it  loudly  cried  ; 
"  Go  ''ome  !  "  re-echoed  the  mountain,  side ; 
"  Go  'ome,"  away  in  the  distance  died, 
An'  he  wished  he  was  home,  sincerely. 

An'  then,  afore  his  terriHed  sight, 

A  light  gleamed  out  in  the  starless  night, 

That  seemed  tu  beat  all  creation. 
Then  thru  the  bushes  a  figger  stole. 
With  eyes  o'  fire  an'  lips  o'  coal, 
That  tingled  the  parson's  righteous  soul, 

An'  filled  him  with  consternation. 

He  lost  his  sermon  an'  dropped  his  book ; 
His  hair  riz  up,  an'  his  saddle  shook 

Like  a  saw-mill  under  motion. 
E'ever  a  single  word  he  said. 
But,  suddenly  turnin'  old  Sorrel's  head, 
Awa}^  an'  out  o'  the  woods  he  sped, 

An'  put  for  the  land  o'  Goshen. 

Intu  the  streets  o'  Goshen  town 
The  terrified  parson  cum  ridin'  down, 

In  a  fearful  sort  of  a  flutter ; 
Swift  as  a  strong  September  gale. 
With  his  cloak  a  streamin'  like  Sorrel's  tail, 
With  his  eyes  wide  open,  an'  features  pale 

An'  whiter  than  winter  butter. 

He  told  the  neighbors  that  he  had  seen 
A  fiend  o'  fire  in  HufPs  Ravine, 

That  had  driven  him  back  tu  Goshen. 
He  told  of  its  deep  an'  dreadful  groans, 


Rufus  Rawlins  Ride, 


Of  its  doleful  cries  an'  dismal  moans, 
Of  its  flamin'  eyes  an'  rattlin'  bones ; 
An'  it  got  up  a  great  commotion. 

An'  stranger,  it  is  many  a  day 
Since  Rufus  Rawlin  was  laid  away 

In  the  grave-yard  over  yander ; 
I  was  a  boy  in  those  glad  hours. 
As  full  o'  my  fun  as  the  spring  with  showers : 
'Twas  me  an'  a  son  o'  Jacob  Powers, 

That  got  up  all  that  wonder. 

We  took  a  punkin  o'  common  size, 

An'  cuttin'  some  holes  for  the  mouth  an'  eyes, 

We  gin  it  the  right  expression  ; 
Then  hollered  it  out  till  its  shell  was  thin, 
An'  put  tin'  a  taller  dip  within, 
It  looked  as  ugly  an'  mean  as  sin  — 

'Twould  a  scared  a  hull  procession. 

The  night  was  dark  as  ever  was  seen, 
An'  nothin'  was  heerd  in  Huffs  Ravine 

But  the  sound  o'  the  water  flowin' ; 
The  parson  come,  in  a  quiet  way,  ^ 
A  smokin'  his  old  brown  pipe  o'  clay, 
A  thinkin'  o'  what  he  was  goin'  tu  say 

When  he  got  to  whare  he  was  goin'. 

An'  the  fiend  he  saw,  an'  the  rattlin'  bones. 
Were  a  punkin',  a  gourd,  an'  some  gravel  stones. 

That  gin  him  all  o'  that  glory. 
Yet,  never  ag'in  up  the  mountain  side. 
In  the  night,  would  Rufus  Rawlin  ride  ; 
An'  many  a  time  I've  laughed  till  I  cried, 

Tu  hear  him  tell  the  story. 


50 


Poems  of  the  Farm  a7id  Fireside, 


OLD  HOLDEN. 

Wal,  John,  they  du  say  that  old  Holden  is  dead ; 

An'  he  died  without  leavin'  a  will, 
He  was  hit  bv  a  stick  on  the  top  o'  his  head, 

While  roUin'  a  log  in  his  mill. 

An'  now  his  relations  '11  quarrel  about 

His  gold  an'  unsettled  estate ; 
They  '11  soon  be  a  fightin'  an'  lawin'  it  out, 

As  sure  an'  as  certain  as  fate. 

Now  many  may  say  that  old  Holden  was  rich. 

But  no  one  '11  eyer  repeat 
That  he  eyer  has  helped  a  poor  man  from  the  ditch, 

An'  has  set  him  ag'in  on  his  feet. 

1^0,  he  plundered  an'  pinched,  an'  he  cheated  the  poor, 

An'  he  hated  all  churches  an'  creeds ; 
Bat  he's  gone  tu  a  place  whare  I'm  certain  an'  sure 

That  he  '11  git  the  reward  o'  his  deeds. 

For,  John,  he  was  hated  wherever  he  went, 

Wy !  he  hadn't  an  atom  o'  soul  — 
His  gold  wasn't  lent  without  twenty  per  cent. 

An'  a  mortgage  tu  coyer  the  whole. 

'Tis  said  that  a  beautiful  angel  above 

Writes  down  in  his  book  with  a  pen, 
All  the  good  that  is  done,  every  labor  o'  love, 

An'  the  follies  an'  failin's  o'  men. 


Old  Holden. 


An'  thare  they  will  stay,  without  fadin'  away, 

'Till  the  race  of  us  all  '11  be  run. 
An'  we  '11  all  on  us  know,  at  the  last  judgment  day, 

All  the  good  an'  the  bad  we  have  done. 

The  good  an'  the  pure  '11  have  nothin'  tu  fear, 

An'  John,  I  would  rather  be  poor 
An'  penniless  here,  if  my  record  is  clear. 

An'  my  hopes  o'  the  future  are  sure. 

Old  Holden  is  dead  without  sayin'  a  prayer : 

His  death  it  was  suddenly  sent ; 
Wy !  he  hadn't  a  minnit  tu  think  or  prepare, 

Not  a  chance  to  reflect  an'  repent. 

An'  now  all  the  riches  he  had  at  command ; 

His  houses,  his  lands  an'  his  gold, 
Vill  not  open  the  gates  tu  the  beautiful  land 

That  I  fear  he  '11  never  behold. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


THERESA  TROTT'S  DREAM. 

Theresa  Tkott  is  forty-five, 
Still  unmarried  and  yet  alive, 

And  plain  as  the  years  can  make  her. 
She  long  has  waited,  has  hoped  and  prayed  — 
^Nevertheless  she  is  still  a  maid. 
And  now  is  fated  to  feel  afraid 

That  no  man  ever  will  take  her. 

Once,  o'er  her  shoulders,  white  and  fair, 
Had  fallen  her  tresses  of  dark-brown  hair — 

The  pride  of  her  former  lovers ; 
Its  hue  has  faded,  and  now,  instead. 
Is  many  and  many  a  silver  thread 
In  the  little  tuft,  on  the  back  of  her  head,^ 

Her  white  cap  cunningly  covers. 

With  her  slippered  feet  on  the  fender  there, 
And  her  elbows  resting  upon  her  chair. 

She  gazes  into  the  fire  ; 
With  fingers  open,  and  wrists  turned  in, 
Forming  a  prop  for  her  toothless  chin. 
She  thinks  of  pleasures  that  might  have  been, 

As  she  watches  the  sparks  expire. 

Fair  are  the  faces  that  come  and  go, 

In  the  rosy  embers  that  gleam  and  glow, 

And  memories,  sweet  and  tender. 
Flare  in  the  flames,  that  leap  and  play, 
Flicker  and  fade,  as  they  die  away. 
Leaving  nothing  but  ashes  gray 

On  the  cold  hearth  by  the  fender. 


Theresa  Trott's  Dream, 

And,  gazing  into  the  cheerful  blaze, 
Theresa  thinks  of  her  bygone  days. 

And  memories  without  number 
Kise  in  her  mind  —  then  her  eyelids  close 
And,  soon  beginning  to  nod  and  doze. 
Her  somnolent  senses  court  repose. 

And  she  sinks  into  a  slumber. 

In  a  beautiful  dream,  again  she  sees 
The  slender  figure  of  Solomon  Pease, 

Her  happy  and  thoughtful  lover. 
Home  from  the  conference  meeting  they  go ; 
The  moonlight  gleams  on  the  crispy  snow 
And  the  stars  look  down,  with  a  tender  glow, 

That  beam  in  the  skies  above  her. 

She  sees  a  home,  where  the  firelight  falls 
With  a  cheerful  glow  on  the  kitchen  walls. 

And  her  very  heart  rejoices, 
As  her  eyes  behold,  in  a  corner  there, 
A  manly  form  in  his  easy-chair ; 
And  she  hears  the  sound  of  a  noisy  pair 

Of  laughing  children's  voices. 

Then  all  of  her  fleeting  fancies  seem 
Fading  away  from  her  joyous  dream. 

And  her  dreamland  fabrics  falling. 
Solomon  Pease  is  old  and  gray  ; 
The  hopes  of  her  girlhood  have  passed  away 
And,  think  as  she  will,  and  dream  as  she  may. 

The  past  is  beyond  recalling. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


CONTENTMENT. 

The  golden  morning  is  breaking, 

And  the  warm  sun's  slanting  beams 
Creep  over  the  earth  awaking 

From  its  quiet  rural  dreams. 
The  farmer's  wife  by  the  window  stands, 
Holding  her  dish-cloth  in  her  hands, 
With  her  heart  as  light  and  as  free  from  care 
As  the  birds  that  sing  in  the  morning  air. 

She  looks,  through  the  open  window, 

On  a  quiet  and  lovely  scene  — 
A  beautiful  rolling  prairie, 

With  its  waving  carpet  of  green  ; 
The  morning  dew  is  sparkling  bright 
On  the  blades  of  grass  in  the  mellow  light ; 
The  sunbeams  fall  through  the  leafy  bowers 
Of  the  door-yard  blooming  with  fragrant  flowers. 

On  the  barn-yard  fence,  her  husband 

Is  seated  upon  a  rail, 
Whistling  a  tune  and  drumming 

With  his  knuckles  on  a  pail ; 
He  casts  his  eyes  o'er  the  verdant  plain, 
And  thinks  of  his  growing  grass  and  grain, 
And  he  says,  with  pride,  "  I'm  a  man  of  wealth, 
With  my  well-tilled  farm  and  my  perfect  health."* 

She  turns  from  the  window  and  lingers 

Awhile  by  the  open  door ; 
Her  dish-cloth  slips  from  her  fingers 

And  falls  on  the  white  pine  floor ; 


SHE  TURNS  FROM  THE  WINDOW  AND  LINGERS  AWHILE  BY  THE  OPEN  DOOR. 


Contentment. 


The  swallows  sail  through  the  summer  air, 
Over  the  meadows  fresh  and  fair ; 
The  lively  crickets  are  chirping  shrill, 
While  she  talks  to  herself,  as  a  woman  will. 

Though  many  may  have  their  wishes 
For  fashion,  for  wealth  and  style, 
Yet  here  I  can  wash  my  dishes, 
And  be  happy  all  the  while ; 
Though  lowly  in  life  my  lot  may  be, 
There's  a  charm  in  my  rustic  home  for  me  — 
'Tis  a  hallowed  place ;  it  is  fondly  dear ; 
With  God  and  nature,  I'm  happy  here." 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


A  MORNING  IN  JULY. 

The  sun  gleams  over  the  mountains, 

And  through  the  hazy  air 
It  lightens  the  sombre  hill-sides, 

And  meadows  green  and  fair. 
It  gilds  the  light  clouds  drifting 

Adown  the  summer  sky ; 
There's  beauty  in  the  dawning 

Of  a  morning  in  July. 

The  birds  are  joyfully  singing 

Amid  the  leafy  boughs. 
While  into  the  pastures  the  farm-boys 

Are  driving  the  glossy  cows ; 
The  busy  bees  are  humming. 

The  larks  sing  in  the  sky ; 
'Tis  a  picture  of  wondrous  beauty, 

A  morning  in  July. 

I  stand  and  dream  of  a  morning, 

A  morning  bright  and  fair; 
When  I  was  a  merry  farm-boy. 

Without  an  earthly  care. 
I  gaze  on  the  grand  old  picture 

Of  woodland,  field  and  sky ; 
But  I  am  a  boy  no  longer, 

This  morning  in  July. 

The  hills  are  here,  and  the  mountains, 
The  rocks  and  leafy  trees. 

From  over  the  waving  meadows 
I  feel  the  fragrant  breeze  ; 


A  Morning  in  July. 

But  those  whom  I  knew  have  vanished, 

And  older  grown  am  I ; 
I  sigh  as  I  think  of  the  changes 

Of  this  morning  in  July. 

Ah !  the  dreams  of  youth  are  fleeting 

As  the  fancies  that  fill  the  mind ; 
In  the  race  of  life  we  are  running, 

They  soon  are  left  behind. 
I  turn  away  from  the  picture, 

And  think,  with  a  mournful  sigh, 
Of  the  forms  and  friends  that  have  vanished 

Since  that  morning  in  July. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside, 


SEPTEMBER. 

The  winds  are  blowing  soft  and  low, 

The  days  are  drifting  by ; 
The  snnshine  gleams  in  golden  beams, 

The  clouds  float  through  the  sky. 
And  every  form  of  earth  and  air 
Around  me  seems  serene  and  fair. 

The  summer's  bright  and  fragrant  flowers 

Have  faded,  one  by  one  ; 
Its  last  bright  day  has  gone  away. 

Its  dreamy  hours  are  done. 
Now  Autumn  comes  with  crimson  dyes  — 
The  world  in  dying  beauty  lies. 

Our  lives  go  drifting  on,  and  on. 
While  summers  come  and  wane ; 

The  weal  and  woe  of  long  ago 
Will  never  come  again. 

While  new  hopes  rise  on  fancy's  wing, 

With  every  glad  return  of  spring. 

O  may  our  summers,  as  they  go, 

Be  always  bright  as  day, 
And  may  no  clouds  like  sable  shrouds 

Drift  o'er  our  peaceful  way  ; 
May  fancy  ever  build  her  towers 
In  gardens  blooming  with  bright  flowers. 


September. 


When  earth  and  air  no  more  are  fair, 
When  seasons  come  no  more, 

How  sweet  to  feel  the  endless  weal 
Of  Heaven's  celestial  shore ! 

Where  golden  skies  will  ever  rise 

Before  our  eyes  in  Paradise. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


OCTOBEE. 

Gloo]^iy  clouds  are  flying  past, 

And  the  cool  October  breeze, 
Sighing  with  a  mournful  sound 

Through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
Scatters  Autumn's  golden  leaves 

Roughly  o'er  the  world  so  drear. 
Summer  flowers  have  ceased  to  bloom. 

And  the  winter  storms  are  near. 

Homeward  have  the  swallows  flown 

To  a  more  congenial  clime ; 
And  the  song  birds  all  are  gone 

Like  the  fleeting  summer-time. 
Gathered  is  the  golden  grain 

From  the  stubble  fields  below ; 
Soon  will  nature  lie  at  rest 

'I^eath  her  wintry  cloak  of  snow. 

So  the  bright  and  tranquil  hours 

Of  life's  spring  and  summer  fail, 
Bringing  Autumu's  golden  hues, 

Briuging  Winter's  storm  and  gale. 
Yet,  when  summer  roses  bloom 

In  tha  fleeting  world  once  more, 
Man's  divine,  immortal  soul, 

Wakens  on  a  fairer  shore. 


Leila  and  Jane, 


LEILA  AND  JANE. 
I. 

The  sliies  were  bright  and  the  world  was  fair, 
The  tall  grass  swayed  in  the  mild  June  air ; 

The  bees  were  humming  amid  the  flowers, 
And  song  birds  gladdened  the  summer  hours. 

Two  maidens  wandered  across  the  lea, 
With  hearts  as  happy  as  they  could  be ; 

They  paused  on  a  gently  sloping  hill, 
And  fell  to  thinking,  as  young  girls  will. 

Sweet  are  the  visions,  and  pure  and  good 
Are  the  joyous  fancies  of  maidenhood ; 

Those  bright  creations  that  come  and  go, 
Painting  the  future  with  rosy  glow  — 

As  the  sinking  sun,  with  a  parting  ray. 
Gilds  the  clouds  of  the  dying  day. 

There  came  no  shadow  of  grief  or  pain 
To  blue-eyed  Leila  or  dark-eyed  Jane ; 

Their  happy  hearts  were  as  light  and  gay 
As  the  brook  that  ran  on  its  babbling  way. 

And  Leila  said :  "  In  a  future  year 
In  wealth  and  splendor  I  will  appear ; 

And  when,  on  a  coming  summer  day, 
My  costly  carriage  may  roll  this  way, 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 

"  The  simple  farmers,  in  great  surprise, 
Will  gaze  in  wonder,  with  dazzled  eyes." 

"  And  I,"  said  Jane,  "  the  wife  would  be 
Of  one  who  marries  for  love  and  me ; 

^'  Give  me  a  home,  and  a  true  love  there. 
And  for  wealth  and  fashion  I  do  not  care." 

The  maidens  paused,  and  both  were  still, 
Then  sighed  together,  as  young  girls  will. 

II. 

The  summers  pass  and  the  winters  wane 
"With  blue-eyed  Leila  and  dark-eyed  Jane. 

In  a  room  where  the  dazzling  gaslight  falls 
On  velvet  carpet  and  gilded  walls. 

On  costly  pictures  and  statues  rare, 
A  woman  sits  in  her  easy- chair. 

In  the  ruddy  coals,  that  gleam  and  glow, 
She  sees  the  faces  of  long  ago. 

The  picture  dwells  in  her  memory  still 
Of  her  summer-day  dreams  upon  the  hill. 

Lines  and  wrinkles  of  grief  and  care 
Have  furrowed  her  features  once  so  fair. 

Ah,  blue-eyed  Leila !  thy  dreams  were  vain 
Thy  life  is  saddened  with  grief  and  pain. 

The  happy  hopes  of  thy  youth  have  fled, 
And  life  is  nothing  when  love  is  dead. 

There's  a  cheerful  cottage  that  stands  alone. 
With  woodbine  and  ivy  overgrown ; 


Leila  and  Jane. 


65 


The  roses  blossom  about  the  door, 

And  the  sunlight  falls  on  the  white  pine  floor ; 

The  song  bird's  melody  greets  the  ear, 
And  sounds  of  children,  so  sweet  to  hear. 

And  dark-eyed  Jane  by  the  window  there, 
With  lines  of  silver  amid  her  hair. 

Looks  o'er  the  meadow,  towards  the  hill, 
And  thinks  as  only  a  woman  will. 

A  house  to  shelter,  enough  to  wear. 
Enough  for  comfort  and  some  to  spare. 

Little  I  asked  of  wealth  or  fame. 

And  all  of  my  wished-for  blessings  came. 


66  Poe7ns  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside, 


"HELP  ME  ACROSS."* 

The  day  was  dying,  the  world  was  still, 
The  sun  was  sinking  beyond  the  hill. 

The  clouds  in  the  far  west  upward  rolled, 
In  a  gleaming  flood  of  crimson  gold. 

Like  a  golden  bar  in  the  quiet  skies, 
Beaching  from  earth  to  paradise, 

The  last  warm  sunbeam  slanting  down, 
Fell  on  a  cottage  old  and  brown ; 

And,  through  a  window,  gleamed  and  smiled 
On  the  beautiful  face  of  a  dying  child  ; 

Peacefully  fell,  on  her  snowy  bed. 
Like  a  heavenly  halo  'round  her  head. 

Softly,  she  opened  her  dreamy  eyes. 
And  gazing  into  the  distant  skies, 

She  saw  a  vision  of  perfect  rest. 
Beyond  the  light  of  the  glowing  west ; 

Saw  white-winged  angels,  and  afar 
The  golden  gates  of  Heaven  ajar ; 

And  the  form  of  her  father,  bright  and  fair, 
In  the  crimson  flood  of  glory  there. 


*  "  Sometime  ago  a  little  girl  in  Ithaca,  just  before  she  died,  exclaimed— 'Papa,  take  hold  of 
my  hand  and  help  me  across.'   Her  father  had  died  two  months  before. 


'Help  Me  Across': 


But  a  dark,  deep  river  rolled  between 
The  dreary  world  and  that  heavenly  scene. 

Yet,  looking  over  the  dismal  tide, 

She  longed  to  stand  by  her  father's  side. 

"  Papa,  take  hold  of  my  hand,"  she  said, 
"  And  help  me  across."    The  day  was  dead. 

For  the  sunbeam  paled  and  passed  from  sight. 
And  on  that  beautiful  ray  of  light, 

A  soul  ascended  by  angels  borne. 

To  a  world  where  mortals  may  never  mourn  ; 

Passed  away  from  its  earthly  clay. 

Like  the  glowing  light  of  the  dying  day, 

"While  a  thousand  beautiful  angels  smiled. 
At  the  perfect  faith  of  that  holy  child. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside, 


AFTER  THE  SUMMER  TIME. 

Over  the  tops  of  the  tasseled  corn, 
Os^er  the  harvest-fields  forlorn, 

Over  the  pastures,  brown  and  bare, — ■ 
The  balmy  breath  of  the  Autumn  air, 

In  a  tremulous  tone,  is  borne  along, 

Like  the  plaintive  waves  of  some  sad  sweet  song. 

The  flowers  fade,  and  the  green  leaves  die. 
And  the  months  of  the  circling  year  go  by. 

Oh,  life !  like  the  months,  we  must  pass  away ;  , 
Like  the  falling  leaves,  we  must  soon  decay. 

From  the  flush  of  youth  into  manhood's  prime. 
We  march  in  the  endless  course  of  time. 

Then  the  faltering  step  and  life's  welcome  close 
The  folded  hands  and  the  long  repose. 


A  Ho7ne  Picture. 


A  HOME  PICTURE. 

A  kitchen  fire  burns  bright  and  red, 
A  little  table  is  neatly  spread. 

In  the  lamplight  sitting,  alone  and  still, 
A  woman  thinks  as  a  young  wife  will  — 

"  The  world  has  many  a  weary  care, 
My  life  is  simple  and  no  less  fair. 

"  Little  of  earthly  fame  have  I ; 
Little  of  worldly  wealth  laid  by ; 

"  Yet  a  loving  heart  that  is  true  and  kind, 
Is  better  than  riches  and  fame  combined. 

"  In  my  humble  home  will  I  remain, 
Nor  e'er  of  my  lowly  lot  complain. 

"  Living  and  loving  is  sweeter  far 

Than  all  of  the  world's  bright  baubles  are." 

The  cat  wakes  up  on  the  kitchen  floor. 
The  house  dog  barks  outside  the  door. 

Listening,  the  waiting  wife  can  hear 
The  sound  of  a  well-known  footstep  near. 

The  creaking  gate  is  swung  once  more. 
Her  husband  enters  the  open  door. 

And  never  a  prince  under  palace  dome 
E'er  met  with  a  dearer  welcome  home. 


Poems  of  the  Farm  and  Fireside. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  IN  THE  COENER. 

The  leafless  trees  are  brown  and  bare, 

The  snowflakes  sweep  through  the  frosty  air. 

With  the  wintry  wind  they  sport  and  play, 
As  it  wearily  whistles  the  night  away. 

The  time-worn  clock  in  the  corner  stands, 
With  faded  dial  and  rusty  hands. 

With  ceaseless  motion  its  pendulum  swings. 
And  this  is  the  doleful  song  it  sings : 

"  Tick,  tick,  tick,  there  are  smiles  and  tears 
In  the  mournful  tale  of  a  hundred  years. 

"  The  voice  of  memory,  soft  and  low. 
Whispers  to-night  of  the  long  ago. 

" '  There  are  friends  you  loved  ;  there  are  hopes  most  dear, 
That  are  dead  and  gone  with  the  old,  old  year.' 

"  Spiders  have  woven  their  silken  thread 
In  the  dingy  corner  overhead ; 

"  'Mid  the  endless  dust  of  the  busy  day. 
That  hands  now  pulseless  have  swept  away. 

"  The  world  will  change,  and  time  will  fly, 
And  all  grow  old  as  the  years  go  by. 

"  I  have  looked  on  a  careless  child  at  play. 
And  have  heard  his  laughter  loud  and  gay. 


THE  LEAFLESS  TREES  ARE  BROWN  AND  BARE. 


The  Old  Clock  in  the  Corner. 


73 


I  have  seen  a  growing,  bashful  boy, 
Full  of  the  flush  of  health  and  joy, 

"  In  raptures  over  a  picture  fair, 
And  a  tiny  curl  of  golden  hair. 

I  have  seen  him  gaze,  with  manly  pride. 
On  the  fair  sweet  face  of  his  new-made  bride. 

I  have  heard  an  infant's  plaintive  cry. 
And  a  careworn  mother's  weary  sigh. 

"And  an  aged  father,  old  and  gray, 
Talking  of  years  that  had  gone  away. 

"  I  have  seen  the  sable  pall  and  bier, 
A  lifeless  form  and  the  mourner's  tear ; 

*'And  have  heard  those  Words,  so  often  said. 
Tenderly  over  the  dear  ones  dead : 

'Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust  — 
Life  is  fleeting  and  God  is  just.'  " 

O,  memory !  fond  memory !  thou  phantom  of  our  woe  ! 
Thou  sweet  reminder  of  the  dreams  and  hopes  of  long  ago. 

Thou  living  shadow  of  the  soul,  that  ever  comes  at  will, 

When  human  lips  have  ceased  to  speak  and  human  hearts  are  still. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MARAH. 

In  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  the  stone  from  the  grave  a.wa,j—WhUtiei\ 

Deep  within  my  bosom  buried,  where  no  hnman  eyes  may  see, 
There's  a  world  of  tender  memories,  only  known  to  God  and  me ; 
And  my  weary  heart,  o'erladen,  seeks  an  outlet  for  its  woe. 
Like  an  earth-imprisoned  fountain,  long  impeded  in  its  flow. 

Yisions  slowly  rise  before  me,  in  intangible  array. 
Of  a  passion  wild,  eternal,  of  a  love  without  decay ; 
Bright  creations  of  my  fancy,  pictures  of  my  dreaming  soul. 
Thoughts  no  human  tongue  can  utter,  or  no  human  will  control. 

Gently  raise  me  from  the  bosom  of  the  world  of  common  care, 
And  I  seem  a  spirit,  dwelling  in  bright  castles  in  the  air ; 
Misty  forms  about  me  gleaming,  far  above  the  halls  of  night, 
Minarets  of  sparkling  beauty,  lifted  into  realms  of  light.  ^ 

And  I  linger  there,  enchanted  by  the  beauty  of  the  place, 
"While  an  angel  stands  beside  me,  and  she  wears  a  woman's  face ; 
Sleeping,  waking,  dreaming,  thinking,  wheresoever  I  may  be. 
Thoughts  of  her  I  cannot  banish ;  she  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

Pale  and  fair  as  sculptured  marble  seem  her  faultless  features  now, 
Shining  braids,  in  golden  clusters,  hang  above  her  thoughtful  brow ; 
Every  nerve  within  my  being  trembles  in  her  earnest  gaze. 
And  the  moments  seem  as  lengthened  into  endless,  happy  days. 

Drink  the  draught  of  jot,  whose  sweetness  lifts  the  drooping 
spirit  up. 

And  the  dregs  of  marah  linger  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup ; 


78 


Miscellaneous  Poems, 


Bitter,  always,  to  remind  us,  joy  is  ever  mixed  with  tears. 
And  man's  dreams  of  youthful  beauty  end  in  disappointed  years. 

Hope  will  come  to  man  unbidden  —  it  will  mock  him  from  afar, 
Like  the  soul-enchanting  beauty  of  a  distant  evening  star ; 
Though  his  weary  heart  be  burning  with  the  fire  of  despair, 
Hope  will  fan  the  flame  till  nothing  is  but  dust  and  ashes  there. 

Hope,  that  fills  man's  soul  with  visions  he  would  gladly  drive  away ; 
Hope,  that  builds  anew  the  idols  that  he  fain  would  have  decay ; 
Charms  him  by  her  mystic  beauty,  holds  him  in  her  magic  spell. 
Leaving  him  to  grasp  at  nothing,  like  a  Tantalus  in  Hell. 

Hope  inconstant,  hope  delusive  —  ah  !  no  idle  words  are  these  — 
Brightest  boon  to  mortals  given,  more  infectious  than  disease ; 
Wherefore  is  the  sense  and  reason,  man  should  be  to  sorrow  bom? 
Wherefore  should  his  soul  be  blighted,  and  his  heart  be  left  forlorn  ? 

Wherefore  should  his  pride  be  humbled  and  his  years  be  filled  with 
pain  ? 

Life  unmixed  with  joy  and  pleasure  is  existence  spent  in  vain. 
Woman  !  woman  !  cold  and  distant,  void  of  feeling,  loving  none ; 
Thou  art  but  a  soulless  statue  with  a  senseless  heart  of  stone. 

Thou  would'st  bury  in  the  bosom  of  a  dark  and  soundless  sea. 
One  whose  only  earthly  pleasure  is  the  joy  of  loving  thee. 
In  thy  cold,  imperious  beauty,  pride  and  wisdom  are  combined ; 
Thou  hast  God's  great  gift  of  genius  and  a  deep  and  thoughtful  mind. 

Thou  hast  friends  to  do  thy  bidding,  and  a  fortune  at  command. 
And  a  throng  of  ardent  suitors  boldly  clamor  for  thy  hand. 
Votaries  of  wealth  and  fashion,  gilded  worshipers  of  style. 
Seek,  with  amatory  whispers,  thy  attention  to  beguile ; 

Seek  to  woo  thee  with  their  splendor,  yet  their  proffers  you  decline ; 
What  am  I  to  hope  for  pity  from  a  spirit  proud  as  thine  ? 
I  have  neither  gold  nor  jewels,  nor  a  mansion  tall  and  grand, 
I  can  bring  thee  simply  nothing  but  an  honest  heart  and  hand. 


AND  BEXEATH  THE  WAVIXG  BRA>,-CHES  OFT'  WF.  TOLD  OUH  T-VLES  OF  LOVE. 


Marah. 


8i 


Fool  am  I  to  think  such  trifles  could  a  soulless  woman  please, 
Woman's  proud  heart  opens  only  to  the  click  of  golden  keys. 
What  to  her  are  sense  and  reason,  and  a  toiling  hand  and  brain  ? 
Nothing,  nothing  but  a  target  for  her  cold  and  proud  disdain. 

For  her  love  of  admiration  and  her  fondness  for  display 
Seem  to  steal  her  better  nature  and  her  common  sense  away ; 
Seem  to  blind  her  nobler  instincts  with  the  filmy  gauze  of  art, 
Till  she  lives  a  soulless  being,  void  of  feeling  and  of  heart. 

Woman  !  woman !  art  thou  happy  as  thou  seemest  to  appear 
'Mid  the  rustling  throng  of  fashion,  'neath  the  blazing  chandelier  ? 
Resting  on  the  silken  cushions  of  thy  carriage,  rolling  by, 
Is  thy  proud  and  haughty  spirit  never  troubled  with  a  sigh  ? 

All  the  shining  gold  of  Ophir  and  a  thousand  gems  beside. 
Cannot  calm  the  raging  tempest  of  a  woman's  humbled  pride. 
Tho'  she  smiles  in  outward  beauty,  in  the  shining  veil  of  dress. 
There  are  sorrows  in  her  bosom  that  no  language  can  express. 

When  the  summer  skies  were  cloudless,  oft  we  wandered  in  the  grove, 
And  beneath  the  waving  branches,  oft'  we  told  our  tales  of  love ; 
Curious  eyes  peered  through  the  bushes,  yet  we  heeded  not  their  gaze. 
Gaily  sang  the  birds  about  us,  those  were  happy  halcyon  days. 

All  the  world  I  loved  was  with  me  in  that  beautiful  retreat. 
And  my  life  seemed  bright  and  lovely  as  the  blossoms  at  our  feet ; 
Yet  those  dreams  we  dreamed  were  fleeting,  fleeting  as  the  summer 
hours. 

And  the  hopes  we  had  have  faded  like  the  lovely  summer  flowers. 

Wherefore  should  I  idly  murmur,  wherefore  should  I  sadly  moan  ? 

I  will  rid  me  of  this  sorrow,  tho'  it  turn  my  heart  to  stone. 

I  will  cast  aside  the  gloomy  and  sad  mantle  that  I  wear, 

And  will  drown  my  joyless  passion  in  the  world  of  common  care. 

Still  the  broad  world  lies  before  me,  and  afar  my  eyes  can  see 
Grand  creations  proudly  rising,  shadows  of  the  yet  to  be. 
6 


82 


Miscellaneous  Poeins, 


Give  me  strength,  O  God  !  to  meet  them ;  give  me  wisdom  to  perform 
All  the  toil  that  lies  before  me ;  bear  me  through  the  coming  storm. 

Wake  again  my  slumbering  genius,  that  has  slept  in  chains  so  long, 

Fill  anew  my  broken  spirit  with  the  restless  power  of  song. 

Let  the  river  of  oblivion,  that  no  human  hand  can  stay. 

From  my  dark  and  sad  existence  sweep  my  hopeless  love  away. 

Man  will  build  his  phantom  castles  till  their  towers  pierce  the  skies, 
And  the  creature  of  his  fancy  seems  an  angel  in  his  eyes. 
But  will  live  to  find  the  angel  is  but  human  after  all, 
When  he  sees  the  grand  creations  of  his  youthful  frenzy  fall. 

And  the  woman  who  would  deftly  weave  for  him  her  subtle  snare. 
But  to  triumph  o'er  his  weakness,  does  a  wrong  beyond  repair. 
There  is  wisdom  in  this  lesson  —  learn  it,  lover,  and  be  wise ; 
To  a  nobler  phase  of  manhood  let  thy  humbled  soul  arise. 


Twilight, 


TWILIGHT. 

TO  MAKY. 

When  the  restless  day  is  beyond  recall, 
And  the  dewy  twilight  begins  to  fall ; 
When  the  stars  come  out  in  the  quiet  skies, 
I  think  of  the  light  of  thy  tender  eyes. 
I  see  thy  face,  like  a  spirit  fair, 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  evening  air, 
And,  silently  into  my  world-worn  breast 
There  comes  a  feeling  of  hope  and  rest. 

Sweet  being,  that  stillest  my  hidden  woe. 
Thou  goest  with  me  where'er  I  go ; 
Thou  stayest  with  me  where'er  1  stay, 
J^o  gloom  thy  presence  can  drive  away ; 
All  shadows  fade  when  thou  dost  appear, 
As  the  darkness  dies  when  the  morn  is  near, 
And  my  fancy  glows  with  as  bright  a  gleam 
As  the  rising  sun  on  a  rippling  stream. 

Ah !  who  may  tell  what  the  years  may  bring, 
Tho'  gay  are  the  joyous  songs  we  sing. 
The  hopes  of  the  heart,  that  come  and  wane, 
Are  clear  as  the  drops  of  the  falling  rain. 
Our  lovely  fancies  that  rise  and  glow. 
May  be  of  joys  we  may  never  know, 
^'  For  women  will  dream  and  men  will  build, 
And  both  have  prophecies  unfulfilled." 

Yet,  when  the  shadows  of  life  may  fall 
On  the  hopes  that  rise  in  the  hearts  of  all, 


Miscellaneous  Poems, 

When  thou  art  gone  —  Ah  !  come  what  may, 
There  are  memories  never  to  pass  away, 
When  the  stars  come  out  in  the  quiet  skies, 
I  shall  dream  again  of  thy  tender  eyes, 
And  gaze  on  thy  features,  pure  and  fair, 
While  I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  evening  air ; 
And,  smoothing  the  cares  in  my  troubled  breast, 
These  pleasant  memories  will  bring  me  rest. 


MISS  TABITHA  TOPP,  A  YOUNG  LADY  IN  TOWN. 


Tabitha  Topp, 


TABITHA  TOPP. 
I. 

HEE  HOME  AND  HEK  LOVEES. 

Miss  Tabitha  Topp,  a  young  lady  in  town, 

Had  a  very  great  passion 

To  lead  in  the  fashion. 
So  she  put  on  the  airs  to  take  everything  down, 
And  she  patronized  art,  in  order  to  gain 

Perfection  and  grace, 

In  form  and  in  face. 
In  a  manner  I  will  not  attempt  to  explain ; 

But  I  only  will  say. 

In  a  much  shorter  way. 
That  she  made  up  her  beauty  by  handsomely  dressing. 
Since  nature  had  been  rather  spare  with  that  blessing. 

Of  maids  and  dress-makers  she  had  a  full  score, 
And  a  carriage  with  monograms  half  covered  o'er. 
With  a  footman  behind  and  a  coachman  before  ; 

Was  it  wonderful  then. 

That  all  the  young  men 
Should  think  her  an    angel,"  an  "  exquisite  creature," 
The  very  perfection  of  form  and  of  feature  ? 
She  had  broken  the  hearts  of  a  dozen  or  more. 

Her  father  was  "  wealthy,"  her  lovers  were  "  fine," 
As  foppish  and  brainless  as  she  could  desire  ; 
They  swallowed  her  mother's  bad  grammar  and  wine. 
And  laughed  at  the  wit  (?)  and  stale  jokes  of  her  sire. 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 


There  had  once  been  a  time,  in  an  earlier  year, 

When  Topp  was  an  humble  retailer  of  beer, 

Yet,  by  close  calculation,  by  constantly  saving. 

By  the  fair  smiles  of  fortune,  by  pinching  and  shaving 

He  prospered  at  last  in  his  worldly  alfairs, 

And  'rose  from  the  foot  to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

Of  all  the  beaux  with  which  "  Tabbie  "  was  blest 
One  suitor  was  sweeter  than  all  of  the  rest. 
His  pink  and  white  features,  his  exquisite  airs, 
His  moustache  of  semi-invisible  hairs, 
His  diamonds  and  rings,  with  his  showy  attire. 
Were  all  that  Miss  Tabitha  Topp  could  desire. 
He  was  fond  of  fast  horses,  and  fonder  of  drinking, 
And  fonder  of  billiards  than  working  or  thinking. 
Whenever  he  called,  Mrs.  Topp  took  great  pains 
To  give  him  a  glass  that  "  befuddled  "  his  brains. 

O,  woman,  fair  siren,  men  cannot  withstand 
The  cup  of  destruction  that  lurks  in  thy  hand. 
How  oft  have  the  noblest  been  led  and  beguiled 
To  taste  the  bright  poison  because  you  have  smiled. 
O,  tempt  not  thy  friend  with  the  power  that  lies 
In  thy  musical  voice  and  thy  clear,  lustrous  eyes. 
Thy  influence  dazzles  his  brain  like  a  mist. 
Thy  soft,  pleading  accents  he  cannot  resist. 
And  yielding  at  last  to  thy  subtle  control, 
He  drinks  and  he  dies,  wrecked  in  body  and  soul. 

II. 

HER  MAKKIAGE  AND  WEDDING  TOUK. 

So  Tabitha  married  Augustus  Fitz  Foodie, 
And  started  away  with  her  husband  and  poodle. 
To  Europe  her  lord  kindly  promised  to  take  her, 
So  she  was  as  happy  as  money  could  make  her. 


Tabitha  Topp. 


They  crossed  the  Atlantic ;  they  landed  in  France ; 

They  tarried  at  dissolute  Paris  awhile, 
To  patronize  fashion  and  art,  and  to  dance ; 

There  Tabitha  carefully  studied  the  style. 
They  visited  Sicily,  Venice  and  Rome, 
Admired  St.  Peter's  "  magnificent  dome," 
Pronounced  it  a  "  temple  of  wondrous  design," 
And  its  pictures  of  martyrs  and  saints  "  very  fine." 
They  went  to  the  Vatican  —  saw  Pius  IX. 
They  wandered  together  through  elegant  halls. 
They  gazed  at  the  treasures  of  art  on  the  walls, 
The  works  of  the  masters,  of  w^hich  they  had  heard, 
With  their  faded  old  faces,  "looked  very  absurd." 
They  traversed  the  Alps,  they  descended  the  Rhine, 
Viewed  all  the  old  ruins  and  notable  places ; 
They  thought  "  the  old  ruins,  tho'  striking  and  bold, 
Would  have  looked  very  well  if  they  wasn't  so  old." 
They  visited  England  —  attended  the  races. 
Then  greatly  "  disgusted  with  foreign  afiairs," 
This  new-married  couple  came  home  for  repairs. 

I^^ow,  if  there  was  ever  a  silly  extreme 

In  popular  folly,  'tis  going  abroad, 
For  half  of  our  "  European  tourists  "  would  seem 

Better  fitted  by  nature  to  carry  a  hod. 
"All  must  follow  the  fashion,  as  every  one  knows," 
So  over  the  water  each  simpleton  goes. 

III. 

ADVERSITY. 

Time  glided  away,  with  a  great  deal  of  change  ; 
How  many  fond  lovers  a  few  years  estrange. 
Poor  "  Tabbie  "  grew  older  and  thinner  and  whiter. 
Forgot  how  to  smile,  and  soon  learned  how  to  sputter 
Because  her  "Augustus  would  lie  in  the  gutter  "; 
In  short,  his  attentions  had  ceased  to  delight  her : 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 

He  drank  and  he  gambled  ;  be  lived  ver}^  fast ; 
Unregretted  be  died,  witb  tbe  tremens,  at  last. 

Misfortune,  'tis  said,  never  travels  alone. 

And  "  riches  have  wings,"  for  they  often  have  flown. 

Tbe  bouse  of  the  Topps,  being  largely  involved 

In  wild  speculations,  tbe  bubble  dissolved ; 

There  suddenly  came  a  great  financial  crash 

That  carried  away  all  their  hopes  and  their  cash. 

Tbe  sheriff  "  came  down  like  tbe  wolf  on  the  fold  "; 

Their  bouse  and  rich  furniture  bad  to  be  sold. 

Now  those  who  bad  loudly  professed  to  admire 

The  Topps  when  they  dressed  in  their  showy  attire, 

Pronounced  them  exceedingly  vulgar  and  plain. 

Tbe  ORTHODOX  brethren  all  frowned  with  disdain, 

And  ceased  to  remember  the  Topps  in  their  prayers 

When  they  learned  of  the  change  in  their  worldly  affairs. 

Forsaken  by  friends  ( ? )  and  avoided  by  all. 

Even  those  they  despised  now  rejoiced  in  their  fall. 

MORAL. 

There  are  sorrows  and  ruin,  and  want  and  distress, 

And  griefs  that  no  language  can  speak  or  express, 

That  may  come  to  a  man  witb  no  will  to  abstain 

From  as  trifling  a  thing  as  a  glass  of  champagne. 

And  they  on  whom  nature  has  deigned  to  bestow 

A  plentiful  share  of  the  good  things  below 

Should  not  walk  through  tbe  world  too  conceited  and  vain, 

Regarding  the  lowly  with  haughty  disdain. 

They  may  fall  from  the  top  to  tbe  foot  of  the  stairs 

And  crush  all  their  proud,  supercilious  airs. 


Victoria  Grey. 


91 


VICTORIA  GREY. 


A  GIDDY  young  girl  was  Victoria  Grey, 
One  proud  and  determined  to  have  her  own  way ; 
And,  rather  than  bend. 
She  would  lose  her  best  friend, — 
She  was  one  upon  whom  one  could  never  depend. 


That  she  thought  herself  chdrining  was  plain  to  be  seen, 
By  her  confident  manners  and  satisfied  mien ; 

She  was  one  of  that  kind 

That  one  often  will  find 
With  a  small,  selfish  heart  and  diminutive  mind. 

Victoria  Grey  had  a  passion  for  dress, 

Tho'  taste  and  good  breeding  she  did  not  possess; 

On  the  street  she  would  flirt, 

And  sweep  through  the  dirt, 
With  thirty-six  yards  of  light  silk  in  her  skirt. 


Miscella7ieous  Poe7ns. 


She  had  many  lovers,  it  may  be  a  score, — 
She  had  promised  to  marry  a  dozen  or  more ; 

All  felt  happy  and  gay 

At  the  confident  way 
They  were  flattered  and  loved  by  Victoria  Grey. 

Augustus  Yan  Quirk  was  her  fortunate  flame 
(Victoria  loved  his  euphonious  name), — 
A  weak  little  fellow, 
Whose  w^hiskers  were  yellow, 
"With  little  white  hands  and  a  mind  rather  mellow. 

He  took  her  to  operas,  dances  and  plays. 
He  won  her  afl'ections  in  various  ways ; 

He  whispered  a  store 

Of  tender  love  lore, 
That  blighted  the  hopes  of  the  dozen  or  more. 

They  were  married  at  last ;  'twas  a  famous  affair, 
Made  brilliant  by  presents  of  real  plated  ware, — 

'Twas  a  transient  display. 

The  talk  of  a  day ; 
And  this  was  the  end  of  Victoria  Grey. 

Five  years  have  passed  by,  and  Augustus  Van  Quirk 
Has  never  been  guilty  of  going  to  work ; 

Just  over  the  way 

Is  a  small  sign  to-day, 
"  Boarding  —  Mrs.  Van  Quirk  "  (nee  Victoria  Grey). 


SHE  WEARILY  SIGHS  —  '  AND  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP, 
AND  THE  SOONER  IT'S  OYER  THE  SOONER  TO  SLEEP." 


World  Weary. 


WORLD  WEARY. 

The  radiant  firelight  softly  falls, 
With  a  rosy  glow,  on  the  parlor  walls : 
While  a  maiden  sits  with  a  look  of  care, 
And  lists  to  the  wail  of  the  evening  air. 
There  are  misty  tears  in  her  drooping  eyes. 
As  sorrowful  thoughts  in  her  soul  arise. 
Her  heart  is  heavy,  a  burning  pain 
Throbs  and  thrills  through  her  troubled  brain. 
She  wearily  sighs,    and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep." 

Out  on  the  street,  through  the  frosty  air. 

The  gas-light  gleams  with  a  ghostly  glare. 

Through  the  wailing  wind  and  the  drifting  snow, 

A  homeless  woman  walks  to  and  fro ; 

Her  heart  is  heavy,  a  burning  pain 

Throbs  and  thrills  through  her  troubled  brain. 

1^0  home,  no  friends  and  no  warm  attire, 

No  easy-chair  by  a  blazing  fire. 

Women  must  sufier  "  and  women  must  weep. 

And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep." 

And  thus  it  is  ever  when  trials  fall. 

Where  the  firelight  glows  on  the  parlor  wall ; 

Or  out  on  the  street,  where  the  wild  winds  blow 

And  drift  and  scatter  the  winter  snow. 

Like  a  leafless  tree  alone  and  bare. 

Is  a  woman's  heart  in  its  wild  despair. 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 

When  her  soul  goes  forth  with  a  mournful  cry, 
As  the  wind  with  a  woeful  wail  sweeps  by. 
In  wealth  or  poverty,  "  Women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep." 


Midnight. 


MIDNIGHT. 

The  north  wind  was  frigidly  blowing, 

With  a  weary,  disconsolate  moan. 
The  stars  by  black  storm  clouds  were  hidden, 

The  streets  were  deserted  and  lone. 
Save  the  flickering  lamps  of  the  city, 

That  burned  with  a  dim  spectral  gleam. 
All  was  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  midnight 

And  darkness  was  reigning  supreme. 

Through  the  dim  lonely  streets  of  the  city, 

Unmindful  of  darkness  or  gale. 
There  hurried  along  the  damp  pavement 

A  WOMAN,  distracted  and  pale : 
i^or  paused  she  to  rest,  tho'  aweary, 

Nor  heeded  the  rain  and  the  cold. 
Till  she  stood,  in  the  blackness  of  midnight. 

Where  the  dark  waves  of  Michigan  rolled. 

Alone,  with  her  proud  spirit  broken ; 

Alone,  with  her  sorrow  and  shame ; 
Alone,  with  her  crushed  heart  and  beauty, 

With  neither  a  home  nor  a  name ; 
With  memories  drifting  before  her. 

That  tortured  her  heart  and  her  brain. 
Of  friends  and  companions,  once  loving, 

That  never  would  love  her  again. 

A  dark  wave  swept  onward  before  her. 
With  lofty  and  foam-laden  crest ; 

Her  hair  in  the  north  wind  was  streaming. 
Her  thin  hands  were  clasped  to  her  breast. 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 


A  plash  in  the  merciless  waters, 
A  struggle,  a  gurgle  and  moan ; 

The  billows  rolled  wildly  above  her; 
The  desolate  pier  was  alone. 

O  Death !  in  thy  unknown  dominions, 

Iso  pitiless  storm-billows  roar. 
With  thee,  the  worn  heart  may  find  refuge, 

Where  trouble  may  haunt  it  no  more. 
Thou  peace  of  the  sad  and  the  lowly, — 

Thou  comfort  of  all  the  depressed, 
Thy  dark  mantle  hides  all  our  sorrows  — 

Thou  givest  the  world-weary  rest. 

The  south  wind  was  tenderly  blowing, 

^^o  longer  the  ^dld  waters  rolled, 
But  gently  were  dancing  and  gleaming 

In  ripples  of  purple  and  gold. 
And  drifting  about  on  their  bosom. 

With  glowing  clouds  floating  above, 
A  pale  face  stared  upward  towards  Heavex, 

Appealing  for  pity  and  love. 


Helen. 


HELEN* 

While  her  young  life  was  bright  and  fair 
With  hope  and  promise  everywhere, 
The  spoiler  came,  and  at  his  will 
Her  beauty  paled  and  passed  away, 
As  fades  the  splendor  of  the  day 
When  twilight  falls  and  all  is  still. 

O  tranquil  slumber !  Heavenly  birth ! 

She  sleeps  to  wake  no  more  on  earth, 

But  in  a  holier  atmosphere 

Her  spirit  smiles  upon  us  here, 

As  peacefully,  as  from  the  skies 

The  stars  look  down  with  trembling  eyes 

Upon  the  dewy  world  below. 

Whose  sorrows  she  may  never  know. 

Uplifted  on  the  shore  of  time, 
O  Death !  thy  gateway  stands  sublime. 
Beyond  there  is  a  brighter  shore, 
From  whence  we  may  return  no  more. 
<)  unknown  boundary  that  lies 
Between  the  world  and  Paradise  ! 

*  In  memory  of  Helen  A.  Waters,  who  died  Aug.  11th,  1872. 


lOO 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 


TWICE  ASLEEP. 

A  CHILD  lies  sleeping  in  calm  repose, 
As  sweet  and  fair  as  a  dewy  rose ; 

Her  little  white  hands  are  laid  at  rest 
Over  her  gently-heaving  breast. 

Sunny  smiles  on  her  red  lips  play, — 
Linger  a  moment,  then  pass  away. 

Forms  and  faces  of  earth  and  air 

Flit  through  her  mind  while  she  slumbers  there, 

Amid  the  misty  and  mellow  skies, 

Their  white  wings  dazzle  her  dreaming  eyes. 

Until  she  wakens  in  mute  dismay. 
While  her  fleeting  fancies  fade  away. 

She  sleeps  again  —  in  her  last  repose ; 
She  lies  like  a  withered  and  faded  rose. 

Over  her  forehead,  pale  and  fair, 
Eipple  her  tresses  of  golden  hair ; 

Her  little  white  hands  are  laid  at  rest 
Over  her  tranquil  and  lifeless  breast. 

Her  voice  is  silent,  and,  come  what  may, 
No  smile  will  gladden  her  lips  of  clay. 

For  the  happy  dreams  she  dreamed  are  through; 
How  sweet  to  hope  that  they  all  came  true ! 


Then  and  Now. 


lOI 


THEN  AND  NOW. 

THEN. 

Long-  ago  sweet  Lilian  Claire, 

Stood  by  a  window,  young  and  fair ; 

She  smiled  to  think  that  her  soul  was  free 
From  the  earthly  cares  that  were  yet  to  be. 

^ut  the  smile  on  her  sweet  lips  died  away 
As  she  thought  of  her  lover,  Allen  May. 

-'Ah,  me !  "  she  sighed,  "if  I  only  knew 

My  beautiful  day-dreams  might  come  true." 

Fond  is  the  love  that  a  woman  feels. 

Tender  the  passion  her  heart  conceals. 

She  who  has  truly  loved  may  know 

That  love  is  a  woman's  heaven  below. 

These  were  the  thoughts  of  Lilian  Claire 
As  she  built  her  castles  in  the  air. 

NOW. 

Fifty  years  have  gone  away, 

Allen  and  Lilian  are  old  and  gray. 

Bright  young  grandchildren  'round  them  cling. 
Gay  and  happy  as  birds  in  spring. 

Lilian,  clasping  the  old  man's  hand, 
Proudly  looks  on  the  youthful  band. 


102  Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Then  softlv  whispers,  sweet  and  low, 
Just  as  she  used  to  long  ago : 

"Allen,  onr  journey  is  almost  through, 

My  yonthful  day-dreams  have  all  come  true ! 


Solomon  Ray. 


SOLOMON  EAY. 

A  HAED,  close  man  was  Solomon  Ray, 
I^"othing  of  value  he  gave  away  ; 

He  hoarded  and  saved ; 

He  pinched  and  shaved ; 
And  the  more  he  had,  the  more  he  craved. 

The  hard-earned  dollars  he  toiled  to  gain. 
Brought  him  little  but  care  and  pain ; 
For  little  he  spent, 
?        And  all  he  lent 
He  made  it  bring  him  twenty  per  cent. 

Such  was  the  life  of  Solomon  Eay ; 

The  years  went  by,  and  his  hair  grew  gray. 

His  cheeks  grew  thin, 

And  his  soul  within 
Grew  hard  as  the  dollars  he  worked  to  wdn. 

But  he  died  one  day,  as  all  men  must, 
For  life  is  fleeting  and  man  but  dust ; 

The  heirs  were  gay 

That  laid  him  away. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  Solomon  Eay. 

They  quarreled  now,  who  had  little  cared 
For  Solomon  Eay  while  his  life  was  spared ; 
His  lands  were  sold. 
And  his  hard-earned  gold 
All  went  to  the  lawyers,  I  am  told. 


I04 


Miscellaneous  Poems, 


Yet  men  will  cheat  and  pinch  and  save, 
Nor  carry  their  treasures  beyond  the  grave. 

All  their  gold  some  day  . 

Will  melt  away 
Like  the  selfish  savings  of  Solomon  Ray. 


Two  Pictures. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

Two  pictures  hung  on  the  dingy  wall 
Of  a  grand  and  old  Florentine  hall ; 


One  of  a  child,  of  beauty  rare, 
With  a  cherub  face  and  golden  hair. 


The  lovely  look  of  whose  radiant  eyes 
Filled  the  soul  with  thoughts  of  Paradise. 

The  other  face  was  a  visage  vile, 

Marked  with  the  lines  of  lust  and  guile, — 

A  loathsome  being,  whose  features  fell 
Brought  to  the  soul  weird  thoughts  of  hell. 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Side  by  side,  in  their  frames  of  gold, 
Dingy  and  dusty,  cracked  and  old, 
This 'is  the  solemn  tale  they  told: 

A  youthful  painter  found  one  day, 

In  the  streets  of  Rome,  a  child  at  play, 

And,  moved  by  the  beauty  that  it  bore  — 
The  heavenly  look  that  its  features  wore  — 

On  a  canvas,  radiant  and  grand. 

He  painted  its  face  with  a  master  hand. 

Year  after  year  on  his  wall  it  hung, 
'Twas  ever  joyful  and  always  young, — 

Driving  away  all  thoughts  of  gloom, 
While  the  painter  toiled  in  his  dingy  room. 

Like  an  Angel  of  Light  it  met  his  gaze, 
Bringing  him  dreams  of  his  boyhood  days. 
Filling  his  soul  with  a  sense  of  praise. 

His  raven  ringlets  grew  thin  and  gray ; 
His  young  ambition  all  passed  aw^ay. 

Yet  he  looked  for  years,  in  many  a  place. 
To  find  a  contrast  to  that  sweet  face. 

Through  haunts  of  vice  in  the  night  he  strayed,, 
To  find  some  ruin  that  crime  had  made. 

At  last,  in  a  prison  cell,  he  caught 

A  glimpse  of  the  hideous  fiend  he  sought. 

On  a  canvas  weird  and  wild,  but  grand. 
He  painted  the  face  with  a  master  hand. 

His  task  was  done ;  'twas  a  work  sublime. 
An  angel  of  joy  and  a  fiend  of  crime, — 
A  lesson  of  life  from  the  wreck  of  time. 


Two  Pictures. 


107 


O  crime !  with  ruin  thy  road  is  strown, 
The  brightest  beauty  the  world  has  known. 

Thy  power  has  wasted,  till,  in  the  mind, 
No  trace  of  its  presence  is  left  behind. 

The  loathsome  wretch  in  the  dungeon  low, 
With  the  face  of  a  fiend  and  a  look  of  woe. 


Ruined  by  revels  of  crime  and  sin, 

A  pitiful  wreck  of  what  might  have  been, 

Hated  and  shunned,  and  without  a  home, 

Was  the  child  that  played  in  the  streets  of  Rome. 


io8 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 


OX  THE  BAX'K  OF  THE  irnR^^ITEIXlT  RILL. 

At  the  foot  of  a  hill  by  a  mummrmg  rill 

That  nms  on  its  way  to  the  sea ; 
Lived  a  maiden  as  :^ir  as  a  creature  of  air, 

And  as  lovely  as  woman  could  be. 
In  the  places  she  strayed,  through  the  beautiful  glade 
The  lovely  wild-flowers  now  blossom  and  fiide, 

Yet  lone  is  the  valley  to  me. 

Lone  is  the  valley  to  me. 

Sweet  Marion  Glenn,  neither  language  nor  pen 

Can  picture  thy  beauty  so  rare ; 
^WTiat  memories  rise  at  the  thought  of  thine  eyes 

And  thy  tresses  of  ebon  black  hair !  * 
Thou  wilt  meet  me  no  more  in  the  low  cottage  door. 
The  Summer  winds  whistle,  the  Autumn  gales  roar. 

And  the  dead  leaves  are  swept  through  the  air. 

The  dead  leaves  are  swept  through  the  air. 

Yet  the  clear  waters  flow,  as  they  did  long  ago, 

By  the  cot  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ; 
And  the  drooping  elms  wave  o'er  a  mossy  green  grave. 

On  the  bank  of  the  murmuring  rill : 
While  the  golden  sun  gleams,  and  the  silver  moon  beams 
In  the  day  and  the  night  time,  on  woodlands  and  streams. 

But  the  beautifdl  sleeper  is  still. 

The  beautiful  sleeper  is  still. 


ON  THE  BANK  OP  THE  MUKMURING  RILL. 


True  Friends. 


1 1 1 


TRUE  FEIENDS. 

Some  souls  there  are  that  never  change, 
Some  friendships  that  endure  ; 

That  neither  time  nor  years  estrange, 
Some  hearts  divine  and  pure  — 

And  as  we  meet  them  here  and  there 

About  the  world,  how  dear  they  are ! 

And  were  it  not  for  friends  like  these. 
To  bless  our  cheerless  fate, 

The  life  we  live  on  earth  below 
Were  more  than  desolate. 

And  this  dark,  lonely  world  of  ours 

Were  like  a  garden  void  of  flowers. 


112 


Miscellaneous  Poems, 


SLEEP. 

The  summer  moon  is  creeping  through  the  skies. 
The  evening  wind  disconsolately  sighs ; 

Hushed  are  the  sounds  of  toil  and  busy  trade, 
The  crickets  chirp  their  evening  serenade. 

The  weary  laborer  slumbers  in  his  cot, 
And  all  his  cares  of  living  are  forgot : 

The  children  long  have  ceased  their  joyous  play,, 
In  happy  dreams  they  sleep  the  night  away. 

O  sleep  !  thou  heavenly  balm  for  human  woe. 
Thou  hidest  all  our  sorrows  here  below. 

In  thy  embrace,  the  mourner  smiles  again, 
And  aching  hearts  forget  their  poignant  pain^ 

While  faces  marred  by  lines  of  worldly  care. 
Are,  by  thy  touch,  made  beautiful  and  fair. 

O  sleep !  thou  heavenly  balm  for  human  woe. 
The  common  comfort  of  the  proud  and  low. 


A^iother  Year, 


113 


ANOTHER  YEAR 

Another  year  has  gone,  to  come  no  more ; 

Its  scenes  of  joy  and  hours  of  grief  are  done  — 
'Tis  gone  where  other  years  have  gone  before, 

Where  all  must  end  that  ever  was  begun ; 
Where  gaunt  and  gray  oblivion  loves  to  dwell. 
And  infant  Time  first  lisped  the  hours  "  farewell." 

Below  the  fleecy  folds  of  drifting  snow. 

Like  beauty  laid  at  rest,  the  verdure  lies ; 

Beneath  the  ice  the  silent  rivers  flow, 

The  rippling  rills  are  hidden  from  our  eyes, 

While  time  glides  by  as  swiftly  as  the  wind. 

And  only  leaves  his  memories  behind. 

The  spring-time  came,  and,  ere  it  passed  aw^ay. 
The  world  was  robed  in  beauty  everywhere ; 

The  blooming  roses  and  the  new-mown  hay 
Perfumed  the  breezes  of  the  summer  air ; 

Then  Autumn  came,  and  with  her  flying  gold 

The  simple  story  of  a  year  was  told. 

Farewell,  Old  Year,  for  thou  art  gone  at  last, 
And  Time  has  borne  thee  on  his  hoary  wings 

Into  the  silent  ages  of  the  past ; 

And  now  another  year  he  proudly  brings. 

Thy  funeral  dirge  is  chanted  by  the  breeze, 

Through  the  bare  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 

The  JSTew  Year  comes  with  many  frowning  fears, 
Yet  with  a  thousand  promises  of  joy ; 

The  sombre  shadows  of  maturer  years 

Our  youthful  fancies  and  fair  dreams  destroy ; 

8 


114 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 


Yet  heavenly  Hope  looks  down  with  angel  eyes 
From  gleaming,  golden  gates  of  Paradise. 

Ambition  points  us  to  the  toilsome  way 

That  leads  to  worldly  honor  and  renown  ; 

Yet  all  life's  fleeting  phantoms  must  decay, 
And  all  our  fading  fancies  totter  down, — 

While  coming  bards  may  sing  immortal  songs 

Of  our  great  failings  and  stupendous  wrongs. 

There  is  one  dream  that  never  fades  or  dies : 

The  dream  of  Heaven.    How  marvelously  grand, 

Tho'  all  life's  howling  tempests  that  arise. 

Sweep  o'er  the  rock  of  ages  where  we  stand ; 

"We  glance  adown  the  pathway  we  have  trod, 

And  leave  our  imperfections  all  with  God. 

O  Time !  roll  down  thy  ceaseless  course  of  change 
With  all  thy  universal  light  and  shade ; 

O  Mystery !  before  thy  boundless  range 

All  human  understanding  falls  dismayed : 

Thy  veil,  that  puzzles  every  human  brain, 

By  angels  only  can  be  rent  in  twain. 


REBECCA  ;  or,  a  Woman's  Secret.— By  Mrs.  Car- 
oline Fairfield  Cor  bin.    12mo.    Price,  $1.50. 

"  One  of  the  strongest,  most  thoughtful  and,  at  the  same  time,  otherwise  at- 
tractive stones  that  have  lately  come  to  us."— The  Advance,  Chicago. 

"  We  have  read  this  absorbing  story  through  with  a  sense  of  wonder,  admi- 
ration and  delight.  It  is  one  of  tlie  most  powerful  compositions  that  the  age 
has  Tproduced."— Methodist  Recorder,  Pittsburgh. 

"  So  thoroughly  packed  with  good  things  is  this  volume,— it  can  scarcely  be 
called  a  novel,  notwithstanding  its  title,— that  to  take  time  to  point  out  each 
one  separately  is  entirely  out  of  the  question.  *  *  *  Mrs.  Corbin  has  proven 
herself  a  writer  of  more  than  ordinary  ability."— Times. 

SIX  LITTLE  COOKS;  or,  Aunt  Jane's  Cooking 

Class-— 12nio.    Price,  $1.00. 

*'  A  book  which  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold,  for  it  really  tells  one  how  to 
cook"— Notre  Dame  Scholastic. 

"  This  book  is  the  result  of  a  happy  thought.  It  is  a  juvenile  cookery  book, 
disguised  in  a  bright  story.      *  *      It  is  a  lucky  stroke  of  genius,  be- 

cause it  is  a  good  thing  well  done.  It  has  the  charm  of  a  bright  story  of  real 
life,  and  it  is  a  useful  essay  on  the  art  of  cooking."— Times,  New  York. 

DORA'S  HOUSEKEEPING. -By  the  author  of  "Six 
Little  Cooks."    12nio.    Price,  $1.00. 

"Never  was  a  more  tempting  bait  thrown  out  wherewith  to  inveigle  the  vast 
tribe  of  little  girls  into  being  capable  women." — Times,  Chicago. 

'•  It  is  intended  for  girls  in  their  early  teens,  and  so  appetizing  are  the  recl- 

fies,  that  they  would  almost  turn  an  anchorite  into  a  cook.  In  short,  one  can't 
ook  over  the  book  without  getting  hungry." — Tribune,  New  York. 

"The  story  does  not  flag,  either,  and  is  enlivened  with  some  good  character 
sketching.  The  housewifery  advice  is  sound,  sensible  and  civilized.  We  cor- 
dially recommend  these  two  books  ( "  Dora's  Housekeeping,"  and  Six  Little 
Cooks,")  as  containing  almost  the  whole  gospel  of  domestic  economy." — The  Na- 
tion, New  York. 

THE  TWO  CIRCUITS.— A  story  of  Pioneer  Life.    By  J.  L. 

Ckane,  with  25  illustrations.    Price,  |1.50. 

"  Many  of  the  situations  and  episodes  are  irresistably  funny,  and  all  who 
read  the  book  are  sure  to  be  indebted  to  Mr.  Crane  for  more  than  one  genuine 
and  hearty  la,u^h."— The  Alliance. 

"The  story  is  intensely  interesting.  *  *  *  Persons  who  are  afraid 
to  laugh  may  not  be  pleased  with  the  book,  but  to  Methodists  as  well  as  others, 
who  have  a  warm  side  for  humanity,  the  book  will  be  very  charming."—  West- 
ern Christian  Advocate,  Cincinnati. 

THE  JERICHO  ROAD;  A  Story  of  Western 

Life, — By  John  Habberton,  Author  of  *'  Helen's  Babies,"  "  The 

Barton  Experiment,"  etc.  12mo.  Cloth,  price,  $1.00.  Paper,  50  cts. 

"  One  of  the  strongest,  most  effective,  and  most  affecting  tales— a  satire  on 
the  good  Samaritanism  of  the  w  orld— we  have  ever  read.  *  *  *  No  one 
will  deny  the  story's  strength  or  force,  or  the  eminent  ability  of  the  writer."— 
Boston  Traveler. 

' '  It  cuts  like  a  razor,  for  the  Americans  are  good  at  satire,  and  now  and  then 
produce  a  story  of  powerful  interest.  For  both  these  reasons  it  will  be  read  in 
England  with  the  same  avidity  it  has  met  with  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
and  elsewhere.  Indeed  it  is  one  of  those  books  it  is  impossible  to  lay  down  till 
the  reader  has  come  to  the  end."— British  Mail,  London. 

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TALES  OF  ANCIENT  CREECE.-By  the  Rev.  g.  w. 

Cox,  M.A.,  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  12mo,  cloth.  Extra  gilt. 
Gilt  edges.    Price,  §2.00. 

"  It  ought  to  he  in  the  hands  of  every  scholar  and  of  every  schoolboy."— 
The  Saturday  Review,  London. 

"  Admirable  in  style  and  level  with  a  child's  comprehension,  these  versions 
might  well  find  a  place  in  every  family."— TAe  Nation.  New  York. 

"  It  is  doubtful  if  these  tales,  antedating  history  in  their  origin,  and  yet 
fresh  with  the  charms  of  youth  to  all  who  read  them  for  the  first  time,  were  be- 
fore ever  presented  in  so  chaste  and  popular  ioxxa.."— Golden  Rule,  Boston. 

MANUAL  OF  VE RTEB RAT ES.  A  Manual  of  theVer 
tebrates  of  the  Northern  United  States,  including  the  District  east 
of  the  Mississippi  River  and  north  of  North  Carolina  and  Ten- 
nessee, exclusively  of  Marine  Species ;  by  David  Stabr  Jordan, 
Ph.  D.,  M.  D.,  Professor  of  Natural  History  in  Butler  University.  Sec- 
ond Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged.  Large  l2mo.,  407  pages.  Price  §2  50. 

"  Dr.  Jordan  has  done  himself  great  credit  in  the  preparation  of  this 
volume,  and  his  publishers  have  done  no  less.  I  can  and  shall  heartily  recom- 
mend the  work  as  the  best  of  its  kind  I  know.  The  book  must  come  at  once  into 
general  use,  and  prove  of  great  service  in  spreading  a  knowledge  of  Natural 
History  and  inviting  to  its  study."— Z>;-.  Elliott  Coues. 

THE  PRIMER  OF  POLITICAL  ECONOMY.-in 

Sixteen  Definitions  and  Forty  Propositions,  by  A.  B.  Mason  and 
J.  J.  Lalor.    12mo.    Price,  75  cents. 

"For  a  short  and  comprehensive  treatise,  we  know  of  nothing  better  than 
'The  Primer  of  Political  Economy.'  The  informatioa  is  conveyed  in  a  very 
concise  and  happy  manner.  The  style  is  perfectly  transparent,  and  the  illus'- 
trations  admirably  chosen.  We  venture  to  believe  that  not  a  quarter  of  the 
men  in  the  Lower  House  of  Congress  know  as  much  about  Political  Economy 
as  can  be  learned  from  this  compact  and  interesting  little  treatise."— C/imiian 
Register,  Boston. 

ANIMAL  ANALYSIS.-A  Method  of  Teaching  Zoology,  to 
which  is  added  an  Appendix,  containing  Directions  for  Forming  a 
School  Cabinet.   By  Elliot  Whipple,  M. A.  12mo.  Price,  75  cents. 

*'  The  plan  of  the  work  is  excellent."— Pro/.  0.  C.  Marsh,  Yale  College. 

"Its  design  seems  to  me  admirable,  and  the  work  should  prove  of  great 
utility."— Z>r.  hlliott  Coues. 

"  It  is  based  upon  what  seems  to  me  the  true  method  of  study  in  Natural 
History,  and  appears  to  be  well  adapted  for  class  work."— Pres.  W.S.  Clark,  Mass. 
Agricultural  College. 

"  A  plan  of  teaching  which  combines  the  study  of  text-book  and  nature  in 
such  a  way  as  to  gradually  lead  the  student  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  the  use 
of  all  books,  except  for  occasional  reference." — Educational  Monthly,  N.Y. 

JS^Sold  by  nil  booksellers,  or  sent  by  mail  post-paid  on  receipt  of 
price  by  the  publishers, 

JANSEN,  McCLURG  &  CO., 

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[see  next  page.] 


